Will Night

I am sitting on the cold metal grating of a bus stop bench in that lingering winter night, watching bus by bus push slowly on their way, familiar faces moving on to follow the daylight at its breaking, fading in the distance. I am wondering which one will take me to my new horizon. I watch the steamy breath from my lips and i scry into the mists for futures pathways, yet all i see is pavement, until i look up from that place and garner the strength to let go of a moment. I sigh and the swirling mists seem to join with the innumerable stars. A wry smile meets me there, and we sit together marveling. I turn my collar to the wind, i tighten my coat against the present air, and my pen scratches against the tattered notebook of my wanderings. I am content, if a bit cold, my muses whisper warm upon me, and I must tell you what they say. I am Will Night. I am this place. These words. What little there can be. I try, though I hardly exist, really.