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WHITE

 by Sharon Auberle


For hours I’ve been driving in a world of white.  Outside a town called Star City,

the pale sun appears for a second, then retreats.  There’s no warmth or light to it. 

White road, white sky, white fields—no demarcations.   Occasionally, a diversion—

an enormous trail of geese overhead in a ragged V.  The road disappearing now in

snow and whirling winds—here and there a glimpse of yellow—the center line, made

visible by pecking crows.   Black scatters up into white as I approach.  A red truck

appears; ghostly farmhouses; a faint row of trees; a cemetery…finally, a thin coyote,

loping along beside the road.  I’m lost in this world of white, out in the empty roads,

in tiny towns where I belong to no one.  I think of angels—the whiteness of them and

pray—deliver me safely, please.  Later, when I reach home at last, my tired eyes

seem to be playing tricks on me.  There, at the foot of my lane, a column—the size of

a man, appears for a moment, like mist or white smoke, then disappears, as my headlights

sweep across it.  Up at the house, I see you waiting for me, your open arms, your red

vest—warm under the porch light.  Over our heads cities of stars and angels are wheeling

through the sky.  Some nights you can see them, burning, bright.

                                                     white to black

                                                      all resides

                                                     in between

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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