Five senses

The pale light of the house on the end of the street against a sky melting to black.  The taste and smell of smoke, the last of the Chinese New Year barbecues.  My dog's claws clicking on asphalt as we blunder through the dark.  The pinpoint of a rising planet.  Tepid wind drawing itself along the street, up my legs, over my nape.  Here, still warm macadam.  Here, a fleeting touch from earlier today, the accident of a warm hand on mine. 

There, voices calling out wishes.  The dying embers of February, the lamplight like a swollen star.