Coming up Geiger Grade, light snow. At Nine-mile Flat, floor it. The road constricts to 110.
Mid-winter. Mid-week. Prime drinking time.
Tourists and summer people are gone. C Street is mostly parking spaces.
Closing time. The snow has stopped, the sky has cleared.
One street light, many stars.
A dog barking far off defines the silence.
There is not a tire track on the street.
I walk back to my car, leaving no footprints ahead of me.
I am afraid that if I look back, there will be none behind.
The arrow of time does not fly true down C Street.
On such a night, what is a century, more or less?