The moon tangles in the tresses of a winter-limbed tree, the sky a humble cusp of dusk blue. The street cluttered with dry shadows and the screams and scrapes of children. A pick-up game of hoops just around the corner while skaters posture and practice in and out of traffic. Seniors stroll along the sidewalks, carrying their sticks and staffs, ready for trouble. The pavement dries in places, awaiting the next rumors of rain.
Coffee steam and starlight. A cool breeze and a sea of frozen lights. The smell of wet earth and the sharp tang of hot bitter coffee mingle with the hard stamped stillness of the fresh night. It is the tilt of the sky, the deft leanings of constellations. It is the press of breath, the ache and the absence. The weight of work against the wheel of life, the moment before the moment, the insistent flavor of the anticipated.
Waking, it is the ache and the breath. The diminishing truth of the fever of dreams. A longed for touch, an awaited arrival. The strange distance between lives and wishes, between the longed for and the fact. This legacy of secrets, the ancestral roots of religion. From the remote geography of slumber to the reasons of blood and bone. Sense and sediment. The position of the satellites, the creased and tattered map.