A Mirror Walking

Standing by the street at night, I saw a mirror, walking. And the night was heavy, and the night was still--and in that night, there was a chill, that pressed in all around me close, and drew me far from where I chose. And a distant fog formed of cloud, moon and stars nowhere to be found--and street lamps blazed false in the dark, the colors washed and cold, drawn and old, as though afraid to disturb the shadows that which cut in bold--and across the ground each reached out, to each other in patterns pale; gray and black upon dusted gold; all the world was set in duo-tone. And it was all together still--a photograph of a world that only at the dawning of the sun could be revealed.

And the trees growing along the road--that road which stretched near and far until it was lost in a weave of houses and atmosphere--seemed to climb each other, through each other, and upon each other; each attempting its ascension. And there was no noise in the street: no clamoring, nor the distant rush of cars across their blackened paths. No, there was nothing but a quiet, a quiet of both vision and sound: a pervasive, motionless void; a world empty of life, empty of time--but expectant. But waiting.