Tonight you are a small bird, wings tucked loosely beside you like the bags beneath your eyes. You're flying through a town that died before you were born, watching men and women retrace their footsteps through the streets, their heads bent low and weary like crows in the morning.
The sun's been gone for days now, but darkness is just beginning to taste the edges of the sky. Lights are streaming by above tightly shut windows and weather-faded signs, with roads that branch out and students who trudge on with hands in their pockets and wind behind their backs. And as you're soaring above the skyline, all you can think about are these crow-like humans, their wings too burdened to fly.
But this is New Hampshire and we are not explorers, just burnt-out kids with crease-laden eyes.