The story emerged from smoky tendrils

I walked the dogs late Monday; the night was cool and I was impressed how the chill kept the drifting woodsmoke at one layer. Interesting where a brisk walk through the neighborhood will lead:

The News
Woodsmoke hangs heavy and drifts silent and wispy across the sepia glow of streetlights. A bitterly cold, clear moonless sky gives the kaleidoscope of stars a clarity of purpose.
Frost covers the ground; a muslin layer of ghostly white.
Footprints, like imprints in tide sand, cross the grass. His feet are bare and are worn raw, red with each step. It is late and nothing in the sub division stirs, not even the damn neighbor’s mix-breed mutt, the one that barks at every little noise.
He circles in place, slow and deliberate and scans the sidewalks, driveways, street.
There is no one to share his news.
He whispers it to the horizon.
A shooting star moves from northeast to southwest.
He hugs his bare torso and twirls in drunken circles.
He laughs, tears run cool down his cheeks.
The stars become oncoming headlights on a rainy night.