It’s dead space 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, for all their mass they are 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.
Odd it is when the quiet without mirrors the turmoil within…
I listen in the stillness.
Yet it is in the cacophony that I hear.