Wet Pavement

Small world, where it rains at night, and things smell of lake and pine and the underside of damp leaves in the dark, secret earth. Driving through cloud-herds, swishing in the fresh, looming blue. Wet secrets whisper from the dripping leaves, the eaves and marges of the forest brooding at the wayside, making way for my wake. Awake still, with reflections past the wipers, the pavement glistening a lake of ice and vertigo, and I slide along it, loosened from perception and glowing lines. I could live in this dark mirrored world where the signs shine out and cars cast glimmering trails, and the noises are those of a mermaid's dim cousin sighing gently in her sleep. For the hushed space of a rainstorm, I dream.