It is dusk
And the cars that formed a massive silver serpent in the dawn
become fireflies, flashing gold,
locked together on some strange migration,
perhaps to a distant planet.

It is dusk
and the homes that were happy children playing that morning
have become angry trolls
granite heavy brows lowered in menace
snarling in their yards at neighbors
who howl back
their walls barely confining
the violence bred
by necessary interactions among strangers.

It is dusk
and my home
is draped in squirming shadows.
Scarlet flecks glisten
and the night is filled
with faint chittering.
Opening the door
I am hit with a cacophony of sound:
children screaming with laughter
as my wife referees a made-up game,
dogs barking, cats meowing as they twine about my feet.

About the Author
Mike Horan was raised in the South but now makes his home in the desert outside Palm Springs, California. He is a teacher by day, writes and does dad stuff in the evenings, and practices martial arts in the spots that left. His poetry has appeared in Mad Swirl, Snapdragon, Route 7 Review, and Riza Press and his short fiction in New Southern Fugitives.