Is it the wind again, is it the spattering rain? Is it the gray tresses of another midnight storm, is it the shape of the crawling dawn? The weather is always tapping on the windows. The weather is always trampling down the roof. I do not know what it was that woke me. I do not even know that I was really asleep. So goes the earnest work of dreaming. So goes the workings of the world before the dawn.
I lean above the stippled pavement. I pause before the shape of the falling rain. Each breath flows clean and cool, the air shed of bad actors and minor ailments. That enduring hush of water falling, the street slaked and the gutter sluiced. All manner of stream and river trickling down every skin. The tune rooted so deeply that it blooms in each unguarded moment. The song of ache and ease freed into the gray traces.
Take it as it was once written. Let it be a prophecy for all these loosed tomorrows. Let it be an alibi for each accident found out in the clockwork of the day. You never know when any dream might end, in fright or in passion comes the broad dissolve. The mundane and the fantastic bled out by heavy walls and seeping lights. All those faces and names coming back as this broken vessel fills yet again. The day arrives, all bells and news and boots on the ground. The day arrives to wake you in the night.