I can’t find number five. One, two, three, four. The owl is here again tonight. Two moons like headlights on the old highway. The one that took me the back way through the rural parts of Victorville. He isn’t happy with me. He rarely ever is. One more drink? You obviously have no problem finding that number five. I hate that fucking owl. One, two, three, four. He’s crouched there beside the door – like the guy from the break in. You remember him right? Dark corners breed darker thoughts. If you don’t let him in he can’t see you. He couldn’t. That wasn’t the point. Did he tell you that’s his van right there? He didn’t. Sleeping sheep are soft and sweet when wild wolves are wily. They keep me from sleep. I watch the movies project from the whites in my eyes onto the unlit ceiling. Those nights in the RV. The ones where I cried to fall asleep. Sad eyes are tired eyes. It’s hard to think they never heard me. The dancing reflection of the highway on the ripples in the pool, seen through teary eyes and he was there too. Waving from the post. Sleep. Sheep. One. He moved again. I lost him. Two. Maybe if I shut my eyes. Three. I know he’s just behind them. Remember? Remember? Let the sheep free. Now where has four gone off to?