Steven R. Cope Once in a blue moon
Some 3 A.M.’s are more truthful than others; that is, if you let them, they grow more like eternity than a thousand dark years. You might hear horns all around you suck back into cars, disappear, the blast inside-out; or windows close; or doors lock themselves; or every parking lot more still than the field it once swallowed. Or all at once streets may vanish and all “WALK” signs, conspicuously, fl-ash-ash as in mirrors. If you are seated on a roof ledge or a window sill or scaffolding, your cream ale beside you, and you don’t mind the cold, once in a blue moon even snow begins to fall. You might just drift with it, slowly turn to white, your eyes filling up with water more ways than you know. And not until the road crew comes scraping and tearing is there anyone left in the world.