It’s a dead zone out there, even the sounds of the big rigs laboring up the hill filter through weakly, muted. Hollow milky mist bathes the landscape, a barrier not a wrap, denying access. The horses shift, mere apparitions, intangible. The hot coffee slip sliding down my throat brings welcome warmth yet it fails to penetrate through to my skin. It’s a kill zone and every nerve cracks to attention, chill and heat in a punishing waltz. I am not so much awake as … aware.
I listen in the stillness,
Yet it is in the cacophony that I hear.