The river is running wild. It seems as though it has been raining for years. A coyote howls at the invisible moon. I know that’s a cliché, but she really did. The rain stops. The wind picks up. The light goes out. I do not have a candle and if I did I wouldn’t know where it is. A woman would have candles and know where they are but women leave and don't return sometimes. The coyote howls again. I light a cigarette, pour a glass of whiskey, and look out the window at the absence of light, beginning to fade. The sun is not that far away. The river is a runaway train hauling coal down a steep hill. I wish I could listen to the all night blues show on the radio.
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