This Moment: 9:14 February 27, 2012

A small plane buzzes overhead and its lights appear alarmingly close to the roof of my car. A light rain mists the car's front window and I see the night through tiny circular prisms. I am sitting in my driveway with the engine running. I am watching the black starless sky. Tin ornaments on the back seat are making a kind of music. I know the dogs are waiting at the door, but I want just a few minutes more of solitude. My half century will arrive in three days. I thought I would feel wiser, older, more settled. I am a restless ribbon curling and uncurling in the wind. The trees are motionless. Lights are blinking on and then off in the distance. The contents in the bag on the passenger seat shifts and startles me. The shadows from the porch light makes dark purple welts in the dry grass. Snow is coming. The lion of March will be here tomorrow morning. Papers rattle against each other. The world is always speaking.