by Thom Gabrukiewicz

He runs through the suburban night, air still tacky with the heat of the day. Past drape-drawn windows, as the gray-blue glow of televisions throb. Where timed sprinklers slake cut carpets of manicured green. He hears it, footfalls like boots on wet sand. The advance, progress - $4 lattes, SUVs, stuff. He runs, and thinks he can stay well ahead of the turbulence.


Thom Gabrukiewicz, whose full catalog is here, lives and works on the Great Plains of South Dakota, not tilling the soil, but trying to be fertile with words. He blogs here.