I am returning home after midnight, After watching a Danish movie. It ends with two stick like figures - A father and son, waving and receding Across a field of wind swept snow.

Cicadas are awfully silent tonight. The only sounds are of dew settling Over grass, gelling it like hair, a car Carrying late night revelers, disturbing A bird or two in the trees I walk under.

What happened to the old father after The finis? Did he freeze in the middle Of shoveling food into his trap, hearing A sound, (his son’s voice?), across the fijord. And the young boy, the wannabe immigrant,

Did he find success in the other country - Amerika? What about love, did he find some? Or did he become the stranger who walks The city streets late nights, after watching films In languages he doesn’t understand,

Palms bunched in his pant pockets, Feeling the weight of weightless goodbyes He casually waved at people who are lost To the past, avoiding, for as long as possible, The pounding weight of un-peopled dreams, Which only an exile sees?