Yellow orbs of lightning-bug-flash, light
the way through a tree lined neighborhood. Tall oak trees stand in rows and street lights and warm glowing window panes beckon an imagination.  Steps beat my thoughts into a rhythm of simplicity. I carry a farm-house ale not a walking stick.  I am in my scrubs and flip-flops and I amble along the center of the wide lane–my own terrain.  It is my own sky. I own the beetles that skuttle across the street from out of the shadows. The black cracks reach for me. I own the starlight and dove flutter. This is my lush wandering. This is my night. I carve a place for myself in these hours. The night and all her court welcome me back into awakening

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