The shadows of late afternoon have given way to the evening dim.

On this side of town, one street lamp stands against the darkening skies.

It intones a mercury buzz and back-lights the old masonic hall.

Looking over the field, phantoms of detail shift and dodge from my sight.

The sweaty day has led to a windless night and from within the darkened exterior echoes a voice.

It is louder than the window fan and rings clear; one letter followed by one number.

I heard the silence before the storm and felt the concussion from a battalion of ink markers striking their pads in unison.

One dynamic call followed by a magnificent beat.

Suddenly, without warning, someone yells “Bingo!”

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