Nothing can stop the bellicose engine hurling round and round above our heads—spotlight trailing the ground below as if from some remote guard tower. Our coyote silence is broken. A yellow dog scrambles in the dirty snow. It is late. We all know it. Some of us are walking for pleasure in the darkness. Some of us are casting out demons from hospital beds. From the edge of town, tents have been erected against the bitter cold. A stream runs beneath the ice seeking lower ground. Fish huddle at the bottom of a stream conserving energy—some have burrowed into sediment. Bridges are communist. Medical care. Highways. To show up early is to be eager. To show up late is to miss the whole first act.
