it's so late...
Small dogwoods and crabapple trees in extant bloom, heavily laden with flowers and perfumed like old ladies on Easter, writhe sensuously against the carresses of the warm night air. Tonight's luxurious soft warmth draws me deeper into it, and makes astir something deep, a thing the night wants to bring out of me, and into itself. As if a perfect summer night, this May midnight makes summer rise in me against my will, and I forget we are yet only into early spring.
There are two adjoining parking lots just up the hill from my house, one built higher than the other—terrace-like. On my ride home, I glide my bike to a stop in the middle of the upper lot so I can survey the night sky somewhat away from lights and buildings. It's never really night anymore. The stars float in a dark blue heaven, and the night never gets so dark as black, not until winter comes again.
Trees sway trance-like in the scented breeze. A reddish orange fingernail-Moon sinks toward the thin horizon haze; it seems moved, too, by the gentle wind. The warm light on its left and lower edge suggests our sun's position, somewhere just behind the horizon to the North. It is so good to have it stay so close.
The thin gay man, who lives two doors up from me, watches from his porch. It's fine for him to watch; I will feel flattered later. But I prefer to conduct this nightly constitutional alone, at least unaware of any other participant. I survey the constellations in the sky—and the ones inside of me—one last time, and I wish I hadn't noticed him. I glance at his porch as I coast home. He's gone. I see clear my familiar path home, and no one is around. Silence, but for the night's breath through the trees. Then I see him.
he stands stock still, sideways in the alleyway, staring at me over his shoulder, halfway to the shadows behind his house, to the warm breathing darkness, alone.
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