Blinded by the white autumn moths that rise from the field-- splat on my windshield. Wipers streak their blood which cakes on the edge of each blade. Rows of corn have only begun to fade like bananas just at the yellow-- the green still clings but knows it will soon mellow. The moths float above the stalks tiny angels in the distance, the souls of infants destined to die again. The sun is nearly gone as I drive past the last silo just outside Sadorus; it is a thin orange wink at the edge of the world as I speed past the ancient graveyard. Lights in the town begin to flicker--they too will capture angels in their glow until tomorrow and the coming of the snow.
Reason for writing:
An October drive at sunset driving toward the village of
Sadorus, Illinois.
Birth sign: Not entered
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