The Night Drivers
Contrary to common assumptions, it’s a mercy to sleep within earshot of a highway. That way, in the small hours when your relentless thoughts course sleep from you like prey, you can rest your attention in the sound of passing cars. Just a transient murmur and the roll of rubber on cold road, like a breath drawn and exhaled. A flat tide somewhere far off, relinquishing a mirror of wet sand.
It’s tempting to wonder: Who are they? Where are they driving to at such an hour? Perhaps home after a late shift: a pocket fat with tips and a six-pack on the passenger seat, the radio pulsing hits of the nineties. Someone else, perhaps to the hospital: baby’s on the way (another voyage through darkness, not to be delayed). Another drives not toward but away: snuck out through the laundry door—just minutes ago actually. Bag was already packed. A silent goodbye to the dog (kissed the top of its drowsy head). Perhaps none of these. It’s really not for you to know. Each one only a grey ripple, a brief hollowing of spectral night air.
Nevertheless, wish well each faceless occupant, strapped tight in their dim capsule, lit only by numbers and dials. Generously, they won’t think of you at all, their headlights carving the long darkness ahead. Acknowledge a debt to these travellers, watchmen, samaritans. To those who drive as others lie still, ceaseless as blood through veins. They will hold the wheel from here. They will think the thoughts for a while, carry them away through the night.
It's all done with mirrors 