There is less tonight. Less.
Less calling across the street between mates.
Less of my internal clackety, prattling on.
There was no one in the cemetery tonight. No one. There’s always someone. Some dog walker; the woman who sits in her camp chair at her husband’s grave; the family that spells out TJ in sea glass stones for their gone too soon son brother; the dudes smoking pot in the electrician’s van.
Not tonight. Tonight I heard the silence. Heard a spot in the middle, where the traffic from three border streets is barely audible. Heard the geese call as they flew over, loud enough to startle. Heard my feet pound beats on the different textures of of tarmac; my mind name shades of blue as I watched the sky shift.
Less tonight. More than enough.