This man made meadow; the present fades as a buck blows through, leaving the hoofprints that will someday be a faint signal; the trailer with faded orange triangle faces history, weeds slyly conquering every crevasse in the dry rotted slats; your companion slows, you imagine him populating the glade with songs and frivolity, familiar faces, and you wait a while, breathing. The same night that was here last night will be here against your will, you want to get moving, but still you wait a while (2016)