The Count of Twelve

The road is at its worst between six and seven. I sit in the long grass at the edge and I let it happen: cars, then a gap that is too short; cars, then a gap that is too short. Anyone can watch traffic. The skill is in the gaps.

My mother taught me the wrong lesson. She taught me to run when the noise stopped, and the noise means nothing. A truck is loud and slow. The small silver ones come out of nowhere and are already past. I had to learn the road myself, over one whole season, and it cost me the end of my tail.

So here is what I know. Three trucks come in a line every evening, and behind the third one the road is empty for as long as it takes to count twelve. That is my gap. I have crossed on it more times than I can count, and I have never once had to hurry.

On the other side there is a garden with a low stone wall, and in that garden a man used to put food out at dark. Not for me, I think. For the birds, or for whatever came. Chicken skin, bread, once a whole plate of rice. He never came outside while I ate. He stayed behind the glass, and a blue light moved on the wall behind him.

The blue light stopped three weeks ago. The plate is still by the wall and there is rain in it now.

I go anyway. I wait for the trucks, I count to twelve, I cross. I sit by the empty plate for a while, and I come back before it gets light. The road has not changed at all: three trucks, then twelve, then the other side. It is still a good gap. It just doesn't lead anywhere now.