I hear that drone of the late-night Portland & Western freight train’s horn, that long snake-like interconnected beast passing through the town.
A town is a collection of people and their wants, hopes, and sadnesses, and, given the lateness of the hour, these same people are currently asleep or making love or pondering one’s existence or anxious of what tomorrow brings.
In a life as short as ours when you behold the sheer majesty (I’m writing in cliches, so caution) of a cold starry Fall night sky with no Moon, you can’t help but feel squashed by insignificance.
And this can weigh heavy.
If you allow.
Which we do.
It’s now Fall, mid October. “October Country” as Bradbury phrased this time of year.
The leaves, once vibrant in color, now grow old and fade (as we all eventually will succumb), and will fall to Earth and rot.
To be subsumed in afternoon shadows that grow long, and the world dies a little.
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