Darkness. No daylight. Stars are gone. Moon is hidden. Walking north on 41. Shoulders iced over. Watch your step.

Semis drive past. The Kankakee River is up. Snow spits. His backpack starts to get heavy. Kerouac, Joyce, The Bible, and Melville fill the bag with pairs of underwear and tee-shirts. One pair of socks.

He sticks his thumb out. No one stops. Midnight travelers drive by. Some going to Chicago. Others on their way to Wisconsin or Michigan. Off to Grandma’s house for warmth and holiday cheer. Presents under a tree.

It is Christmas Eve, and the vagabond hums to himself as he walks; Central Park West and On Green Dolphin Street under his breath. He is grateful to be alive. In the cold, on Christ’s birthday, he is grateful to be alive.