Gas station lights glisten on 
rain-blackened pavement.
Wet concrete. Gas fumes.

A black crow pulls at a worm in a
patch of grass.

Cars and trucks 
glide over slick asphalt.
A bus groans; 
stops for a woman 
in a wheelchair.

To someone from a hundred years from now,
this scene is historic. 

To someone from a hundred years from now,
the characters are long gone.

To someone from a hundred years from now,
we are relics in old-fashioned clothes —
driving our crossovers,
riding our buses,
pumping our gas.

Naïve.

Not knowing what happens next.

###