The headlights glare
At the not-so-empty streets.
The bitter-sweet smell of earth
On this asphalt.
A cry from a far-off skreech-owl
A howl by a two-room house.
The ambulance has moved
Two sidewalks further
From where it was when I left.
Now, returning,
I step on this spring,
Starless, cloudless, in the nebula
Of artificiality.
