The Insomniac's Walk

The Insomniac’s Walk
Overcast skies make the moon’s illumination a milky cataract; his jacket collar is pinched to his throat to fend off the chill.
He wanders the field at night, when sleep won’t come. When the mind is filled with questions unanswered and he needs the expanse of night just to cope. Focus.
He stops to admire the old oak in winter strip, which is black against the spray of clouds. He thinks it looks like and arteriogram, dark limbs and branches the veins and capillaries, the sturdy trunk an aorta.
Life flows here, courses in the silence. He spins, wraps his arms around himself, stops.
And raises tear-streaked cheeks to the gloom.

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