Night says goodbye like a stranger, with barely even a gesture before shrugging its shoulders and fading away. Trees are hung with the usual flittering ornaments, late bats and early birds, shimmering with the aura of a relentless wind. Traffic glides by with that bleary-eyed purposefulness of coffee-steamed commuters and jangly nerved thrill seekers, accelerate and brake in quick succession. If there are stars, I can not see them. Heaven feels like just another hammer, looking hard for defiant nails.
The sidewalks play tricks on the uneven eye, first the color of shadows, then the color of cement. Feet scrape and stumble, a day laborer huddles in a sweat shirt, waiting for a bus. The skim-milk moon has turned to butter, melting into the morning's mood. Windows come alive with the shamble of electric light and alarms I only imagine. The flashing lights, the sudden buzzing rumble, the snooze-bar slapped, and the radio suddenly full of its crisp burdensome gossip. The pavement is pitted and cracked-- one can only imagine how mothers' backs must suffer.
Another day breaks right at the start. Shards and seams and stitches gnawed and ripped at. The flesh takes on some fitful living hue, the birds on the wing blown bright and lively. The colors of new cars and weary houses, of run-off water moving the gutter dirt around. The colors of mute cats, and abandoned shopping carts, and quick feathers too. All painted by numbers or written by fate. The day unfurls, a flag without one anthem for a nation out of bounds.
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