All is quiet on the car
ride home along back roads.
Outside the airis relaxed: 68 degrees,
damp.

Small pearls of water
slide down thewindows.

I stare through the
glass, follow black windshieldwipers,
listen for the splash of puddles and
passing cars.

There isno music,
no conversation.
I don't notice.

There is no heavy air ofawkwardness,
when it feels like time is stagnant.
No need to turn onthe
radio or our voices.

We are comfortable allowing ourselves
to belost in the silence, in the mood, to listen only to
passing cars andrain.

I notice amidst
the breeze, and solitude,
that her breathinghas become rhythmic, her
sapphire eyes have fallen, and she sleeps
as thelost pearls paint
the glass near her face.