17

The single pair of headlights down an otherwise busy street,

Now made vacant by the impracticality of the hour,

All the trodding tires' scraping put instead into the violin strings of the lone car 

That now makes its way slowly up slowly closer.

All the surfaces reflect, 

Each drop of light each harmonic of incandescence, 

To think in day they do the same with a ball of flame, with photons a million years trapped within a hydrogen maze.