Night has settled like damp fog
on a quiet, wooded neighborhood,
sleeping under this somehow cozy blanket.
In this dream-night, lit by
celestial moon and stars, four teenagers
perturb the quiet, all faint chatter
and laughter, too alive for this night.
They come upon an intersection,
where a side road meets the already
minor main street in asphalt embrace.
Called like migrant salmon to this tributary,
three of the adolescents lay supine
on the still-warm street, speaking idly
and drinking the nectar of that
night sky framed by ponderosa pine
with bright, wakeful eyes.
The fourth stands in self-imposed guard duty,
convinced of the danger of this quiet road.
The unlikely appearance of a turning car
comes in headlit chiaroscuro, with all the stealth
of a lighthouse.
The guard looks at his frivolous charges,
head tilted at the angle of "I told you so,"
expecting them to join in his vindication.
The three stand unconcernedly, making way
for the benign vehicle, giggling
about something they know
that the watchman missed.