The hills are on fire. Columns of smoke waft up into the sky like clouds being born.
The moon wraps herself in the crimson tatters of sunset like a dancer behind veils. She runs just fast enough to avoid the march of indigo and the steel-grey ironclad clouds.
The road loops; drift in this state and you'll go around in circles forever. The radio tells me stories of men broken in the jungle and towns broken by neglect. Gardens and castles nestle alongside dirt and tin shacks. Again, I pass the river, all the violent burrs of the long grass smoothed into liquid by the half light. Again, I pass the school, moving from ghostly gums to the pine forests of Norway.
I wonder at the hills; who started the fires. I wonder at the streetlights as they stand to attention all at once. I wonder at the corner shop, alone in the suburb with no parking in sight. I wonder at the garden of roses so bright red they stand out vividly through the blue evening. I wonder at the trails of red running through the trees like streamers. I wonder at my broken shoelaces which bind my feet from walking.
While I wonder I see too late the turn-off to the main road. It passes like a polite suggestion.
I go around again.