It was closing on dawn and they had whittled away the moon. All that hung was a swept blade or a whispered spoon, glinting in just so much sun. The stars were lost in their reveries, drowsing in their remaindered light. Again my hands were folded, this waking moment a little dry and a little cold. Again there was a horned owl speaking clearly somewhere above me. Just another marker I couldn't see.
It happens that the earth was glutted by so much recent rain. It happens that the dawn unfolded with its usual retinue of egrets and crows. The song bird clutter in the trees and on the power lines. The slow waking spirals of vultures, dazzlingly still in rapturous flight. I have heard frogs chirping a few times in the warmer tides of these storm swept nights. I haven't seen frogs around here in years.
I have witnessed the green fields of winter turn to summer golds, and those dry fields hidden beneath the pavement. Watched the tattered housing and cheap store fronts change and fade, blocks turning to streets and streets to so much more gutter. Raccoons and rats work their angles, crows forage from plastic cups and paper bags. The world bent to casual appetites, the sun has lost another bet to the storm and the night. Another dusk frittered away by a spattering of rain. Another dusk without a moon in sight.
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