Unsleeping A cloud passes overhead bringing 30 seconds of exceptional rain. Not enough to raise the failing reservoirs more than an eighth of an inch. The cat prowls the hallway's outer borders looking for some kind of prey. The floorboards are creaking. The room shrinks. Sconce light begins to show its bias, its unnatural nature and inability to do more than make less dim its tiny corner of the globe. A river could not meander less directly. Enter spirit of the night. At last the world turns imperative. Now a dog howls the way a dog has howled for these many million years. Lights come up. Words are shouted, but the tone is very French. Another cloud burst explodes with the beat of at least twenty drummers on the roof. I'm awake anyway watching the dark. I have no exceptional worries unless the dark begins watching me. Ian Randall Wilson has published two chapbooks, Theme of the Parabola ...
Like the title says.