Even the shadows are green tonight. Deb watches the moon. It’s out early. Also, it is too hot for October and the crickets are confused. By October they are supposed to shriek less loudly. By October their hysteria is supposed to dissipate. By October there is supposed to be calm. By October—not this October, another one—she promised herself she’d be gone. She once said to Carl, If you were a real man, you’d get me the hell out of here. He just looked at her and scratched his cheek. He wasn’t a man to answer when spoken to like that. Not taking the bait was his specialty. If Carl were a fish, he’d live forever. Either that or he’d starve. But even she has to admit there’s beauty in this green, practically breathable light. The land stretching away into it. The power line towers also. Even the driveway. Even the shed. All coated. All still. Carl says the land is here for us to build on. Here for us to expand on. That’s what it’s here for. As soon as the fiscal year is through, he’s going to make an appointment to talk to the architect. The initial permits will have been approved by then and so—
Weather said a storm this afternoon but it never came. She likes to watch the storms meander this way from out beyond Dixon. The lightning like a jabbing finger choosing, choosing. Now the light itself is enough. Carl’s on his way home, singing along to the radio unless there’s a commercial. Sometimes he even sings to those. Carl, you stupid fuck. The land will bury you. This land, any land. Least any sane person would do is leave. How many times do I have to say it? Deb gulps the light, wishing she hated it, wishing she didn’t only want to stand here and watch it tonight, wishing for courage, stupidity, anything other than reverence. This strange, breathable light, this lifeblood light.