At 4am the clicks and buzzes of the front door lock sound like digital complaints about an analog world.
Street black ice under the sleepless lamps while in the near distance something is humming like a half-forgotten memory.
Wakefulness in cardboard, dark as the pre-dawn highway.
Beyond, the mountains rise with the sun into the mist over the Santiam. Over the Luckiamute, over the Umpqua, over the clearcut-quilted hillsides rising above all the vanquished names.
Something is burning in the valley beyond. White smoke rises like regret only to disappear into the morning haze.
There's a high school football game in Myrtle Creek this coming Friday.
As the uncaring traffic rushes past.
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(I've been picking up some contract work down in Douglas County. For some reason this stuck in my head, so now it's here. I've got a bit more thought to set down, so back in a bit.)
