Evan Vandermeer

Darkling

About an hour north, there’s a quarry with a beach that’s open to the public until sundown. It’s an odd scene, with its cliffsides rising ever higher to overhang the water at eventually steep heights. It has that high-quality sand, too—fine and warm and without even granular debris that might warrant shoes. But we don’t care about the beach.

last light
first to peek
over the ledge

We used to go around twilight, after the beachgoers had thinned out and before the gate was locked. There are only so many viable cliffs to jump from, and the two best are on either of the quarry’s long sides, staring at each other from across the flat water. Under each, the rockwall is concave enough so that one can simply step rather than leap from the cliff.

still water
the day's heat
still in it

Now, we sneak onto the quarry’s grounds after midnight, passing under a narrow opening in the fence that surrounds it, then along an overgrown path that leads through thick woods to the cliff furthest from the highway. At such late hours, with nothing but moonlight to go by, we can hardly see the water’s surface from the clifftop, and the other high cliff opposite is impossible to make out. Sometimes, though, we catch the echoing whoops and screams of people jumping over there, their noise coming from darkness and falling right back into it.

moonset. . .
the far-off sound
of sirens

---

About the Author

Evan Vandermeer lives in South Bend, Indiana, where he completed his MA in English at Indiana University South Bend. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Twyckenham Notes, Eunoia Review, Jersey Devil Press, Grand Little Things, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and elsewhere. His haiku and haibun have appeared or are forthcoming in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Presence, contemporary haibun online, and elsewhere.