Night
I lived Dugan's seven day diary* once. The droll
week passed by in a blur. I remember the evenings
the most. Driving the freeway south at an hour before
midnight. My neighborhood hidden by night. The lights
of my car reveal forgotten homes, ghostly sculptures
grooved against artificial hills. Near my home I greet
the mother and daughter deer that graze in the front
yard of a foreclosed home. They both freeze and look
up at me. The mother's ears twitch, she can hear my
breathing, rhythmic against the sound of a low rustling
breeze. I want to wave at them, but I know better. Last
week as I raised my right hand they danced into
the shadowed wood. Leaving me nothing but the sound
of hooves against dry leaves. We pause and stare at
each other as if any sudden movement would make
the world collapse. I wait for them, but they do not
move. I say "hello" and again they dance. I want to tell
them I will not hurt them, I want to explain I am
safe. But they know better. They know men lie
and as though they were looking into my soul,
they knew that I had the potential to be dangerous
like a polished rifle barrel or the loud crack of thunder
before their family member suddenly falls dead.
*Alan Dugan's On a Seven Day Diary:
17:45
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