whisper

Rain speckles and spatters into the night, hushing the little town of houses all lined up in tidy rows, quenching the dry bone thirst of the too salty streets and the mangled blanket of scratchy yellow grass. The wooden siding of the garage drinks deeply, its oil and gas scented bays sigh quietly. The black of my car slicking wet into the asphalt, slow-moving rivulets flow down the hill under street lamps, great glistening pools of light reflecting mine, we stare as into deep wells, detecting life in the watery echo and cold vibration of stone. I lay across thick beds of granite, feeling the warmth and weight of every atom expanding and contracting. My bones tune to the same pitch, my blood warms, the hairs on my head circle me and like antennae find frequencies, infrequencies. Vaporous clouds form near my mouth, I blink brightly and clearly and calmly and I welcome you in.