Last Left Hand Turn

In win­ter the lights that float through the car as I drive under street lamps is crisper, more defined, bluer. I make the turn on to the road home and the light in the car changes with the direc­tion, silently rak­ing across my arms, the wheel, the seat in back, and out across the rear fender. The last moments of that quiet ride inter­rupted as the sound of the crunch of snow comes into my con­scious hear­ing. I have been lost in dreams – the early falling of night brings early dream­ing it seems. The moon through the trees seems pre­ma­ture too, like the dream­ing – a month ago the sun was still high in the sky at this time of day. It was a month ago, right? The lights dim as the engine is off and the stark shad­ows in the snow soften as the moon’s dif­fuser makes a bath of light instead of the stream from the head­lights. It’s bet­ter, and the quiet is com­plete for a moment: end of the day.