on certain nights

my hometown at night, in the midst of winter.

On certain nights, the full moon dangles from the sky like a mysterious ornament, tugging at the unreached parts of the mind. It rouses feelings of curiosity and wanting; for a thing so beautiful, you should want to grasp it. But, of course, it remains untouched and preserved, beaming down in threads of glittering light. In this way, it works as a negative to the sun, casting the world into colors of blue and black and silver. The elegant curves and ridges of mountains are extenuated by shadows; white and massive, they stand sharp against the black atmosphere. And all the while, the stars hang over it all. Burning slowly, quietly observing a sleepy town below.

In the lower lands, a gentle whirl of cold wind comes cascading down from the slopes and plays amongst the bare tree branches and browned grass.

 On a walkway of black gravel, a man moves through the frosted air with distorted rhythm in his legs. He is brokenly singing a song he hasn't heard in years. But on this particular night, it's been bubbling and warbling in his head, like a forgotten, sunken tune being dragged onto his mind's shore. A brew he drank, just two blocks away, is now streaming through his veins, making the lights from the harbor fuzzier, and he thinks, perhaps they shouldn't rotate as they do.

 On the docks, no one is around to see the boats, but still, they continue to bob, inch in and inch out, on the green water's surface. 

  Beside an undisturbed highway, you can see the illumination of train tracks, stretching far off into the abyss. Bulky train carts sit in retirement, solemnly watching the occasional late-night trains as they chug on by. Like a roaming beasts, each of the trains make lonely calls out to nothingness, as if they were searching for another as sad as themselves. The passing iron-machines churn gears, feeding on charred coals, spewing out the remnants in the form of thick, twisting billows. If you watch long enough, you can see just where the white plumes and sky marry together.

Away from the cargo trains and beyond the clusters of spindly spruce trees, a dirt road is bordered by old homes. Worn homes, with peeled paint and loose decking. The types of homes where a bottle is the only source of laughter. The types of homes where the puddles are always over-flowing and the flowers never blossom. And next to those homes are the deserted houses; the skeletons of homes. Through the shattered glass of their front windows, time makes it's manifestation: all breaks eventually. Animals are the only inhabitants now. Small, furry creatures burrow deep beneath cracked floorboards, to be warm and to avoid swooping talons. And on the same dirt road as these houses, there is yet another type of home. A sad home. The homes of aged, forlorn sailors. These are men that have experienced a plentiful stream of friends and women. And these men have knelt down and cupped their hands in all the wonders this stream had to offer, drinking in the warm liquid of friendship and romance. But no supply is endless. Now they live in a dry place and they do not know friends and they do not recall the sea. To compensate, these men have collected a myriad of objects over their years. Old boats and cars, all gutted of their parts, sit season after season. Fences divide all of these somber neighbourhood houses, but on nights like this, the spaces of darkness obscure the lines of property. And it all seems relatively the same.

In the backyards, scraggly, stray dogs scavenge through piles of forsaken rubble, sniffing about, delighting in their noses curiosity. The floppy ears of one runaway dog perk at the rustling of pines, brushing together in the wind's subtle start. As he goes about his business of foraging for goods, he must remember to stay keenly aware of any changes in his surroundings. There is little trust between him and the shadows. Even dogs share some common knowledge. They know that when the sky is cloudless and the air is crisp, that's when the tops of the trees begin to sway. In between a rusted engine and a patch of wilted weeds, the dog discovers something to his slight interest. He clamps his teeth down on a hollowed bone and trots away. In a clear grove, the dog skeptically looks about, darting his little brown eyes to and fro until a slight sense of security looms over him. Madly, he scrapes at the ground, tossing up clods of dirt and jagged stones. His paws become tethered and bleeding, but his business is important. A dark hole of only a few inches is made into the earth's surface and the dog is satisfied. He knaws his yellowed teeth into the bone once again, and almost lovingly sets it down into the ground's cavity. Some things are best saved for later. This is also a common knowledge dogs share.

 The air, which had just been so calm and composed, now commences it's tantrum that will last the rest of the night. A girl crouched against a brick building, lingers in the orange glow of downtown. She huddles within her sweater as a rampant gale collects snow flakes to caress across her skin. Slowly, it glides a long the exposed areas, leaving an icy touch that doesn't leave with a mere shiver. She decides to leave. She walks beyond the circular streetlights, and beyond the old-style cottage houses until she comes to her own. Following her home like a lost child, the wind whines and raps against her windows, pleading to be let inside. The neighbours are woken by the howling, shaking blows. From their hazy dreams they awake, skewing their perception of time. A woman begins to softly weep next to her husband as the hours of darkness continue to drag on like a lifetime, taunting at her hopes of sunlight.

This sort of thing doesn't happen often, only on certain nights.

Author's Note

i was hoping to convey a sense of loneliness. success?
comments of any sort would be appreciated. thanks for reading. :)