It’s late. 

Later than you think. 

The club’s closed. The van’s packed and we are circling the block looking for parking. It’s the last house standing. 

Stone stairs to empty lots. 

At this hour, songs aren’t sung as much as summoned. 

Conjured. 

Slowed down enough for you to catch them. 

We are strangers at the inn. 

Shapes shift. Plates drift. Geologic time. 

These songs are spells sung to keep the sun from coming up. 

To keep their world at bay. 

But the sun rises and the wood warps. 

We are three weeks from home and six hours from Memphis. 

Driving with the morning in our eyes.