Erik Vitaglione

Night Owl Vigil

I kick open the back door like a UFC fighter, discharging my rage into the inanimate and unfeeling, instead of her. The thud and clatter echoes off the 3rd floor fire-escape, across the back alley, reverberating off of dumpsters and broken bottles, scattering the rats. The door to the apartment building slams shut behind me and the few constellations, not choked or clouded by street lights and Christmas displays, reflect off the still River. Silence slinks back into the slumbering void of beyond 3 AM. If there is a moon out tonight, she’s hiding.