Hour of the wolf

A jagged sickle of a moon smiles low over the eastern horizon. The night air, redolent with a promise of frost, washes over me while I make my way to the gas station for a pack of cigarettes. Clamor of steel ropes whipped by the wind against metal masts. Rustling of leaves. A car in the distance. The faint breath of a sleeping city. I stop, raise my head and look up, into the black. A searing slit of white hot light cuts across the sky leaving a smoky trail hanging for a few seconds in its wake. The afterimage burned into my retinas. The moment frozen in my mind. Too quick to think. Too quick to wish. Vanguard of the Perseids.