Sitting on the curb makes me feel as though I'm on death row, especially at 9:30 at night.  It's a hard, unforgiving seat, and doesn't really seem to warm up.  An increase in temperature seems to be something the curb inherently defies, challenging me to either deal with it, or find something more pleasing to my jeaned buttocks.

The night seems to be equally mocking, as my position in the town does not provide a wealth of light, even with the street lights and gas station signs so close to me.

Thankfully, though the night has allowed me one mercy; the weather is borderline balmy, with the faintest of breezes drifting through small-town buildings.  The pleasant calm serves to make this night beautiful.  It seems like what one might call a genuine September evening; kids are back in school and enjoying their free time before their curfew mandates their return to what is best described as forced civilization.

The cars drift by, alternatingly noisy and quiet; it depends on the quality of the car, and the financial standing of the parents.  Some only drive by, while some appear to push the mystical and magical sounds of gut-disintegratingly punishing bass into the world.  All, however, have a purpose:  escape the dreariness, dullness, and safety of a home and a bed.  Admittedly, sometimes this is not necessarily the truth, but in small town America, every teenager believes they have a right to despise their parents.

The soft glow of fluorescent signs penetrates the darkness and stabs into the night, and the eyes, announcing that petroleum prices are insisting on climbing to ever-teetering highs.  Conversely, the only way you're getting anything out of a street light is if you talk severely with it, announcing to all that, yes, you have lost your mind.  A man runs out of gas twenty feet from a gas station, curses the world, climbs out, and begins to push his oversized and overjacked Bronco.  I'd help, but I have a certain condition, in which if I am in any way, shape, or form occupied, then I can only make wittily derisive comments in the safety of my own mind.

The moon has ceased his relentless game of peekaboo, and now displays himself proudly for all of Powell to see.  Most likely, though, the only people in Powell that really notice are the lonesome out-of-towners, or those who are still new here, or even the occasional bleeding hear that each town manages to procure, and then ignore; not unlike a parent who is proud to have raised a child that can do the most wondrous things, but then denies it out of embarrassment because the child is quick to point out every flaw it fins and can't abide by.  Mars has shown his red and dwindling eye.  People might notice this unusual sighting, but it's unlikely that anyone cares.

A beautiful night, yes, but at what cost?