After while, it became unsettling to hear nothing but your tires talking with the wounded road and sand underneath.

After a while, you began to wonder where all the birds were. And the dogs. And the children. And other cars. And the purposeful sounds of traffic and lawnmowers and weak television conversations from open doors in the middle of an Indian summer and neighbors greeting each other and the sight of walkers and joggers and flags undulating in the breeze. Even ghosts move; but there are no ghosts here, only suffering headstones in a not-quite-dead cemetery.

Time has passed its cold hand over this town; its colors are bleached and muted, and its voice is silent. And silent. And silent.

October 22, 2014