Late Night, by Anthony Lansing

The man's out late tonight. In the chilly night air with his hood pulled tight. And no one's looking. No one's watching. Save the big black bag in its bed stained red. 

Over his shoulder the shovel swings soil like the soil ain't nothing but air. With the winds whispering. And the leaves rustling. Time's run out in the chilly night air. 

So he packs the soil in. He tucks her in real tight, with no on looking and no one watching. 

Lights flashing. Storm's coming. The man's out late tonight.