We scale the wall at night, the little left of a jug of driest Zinfandel in the satchel on my back. Shards of streetlight
Linear in its literal unfolding, night catches the unaware, flinging bat wings over everything; even anger is less intense than darkness, which challenges the
Two Redtails on an updraft hawk the field, their flight a dance of widening and approaching circles spiraling. It’s spring. Far below, the next