Suddenly the sky has eyes lit through the unusual cover of crawling clouds, seeming to stare at me with disappointment or contempt. The illusion is unsettling, the story of my limping mind set free above these sleepy streets. The vision burning between power lines wilting, these dreams that wander frantic as I stumble into another day. I hear a braying conversation a bit behind me, startling considering how empty the block was as I walked through. I realize that the speaking was only geese wiling away from their wintering grounds. That human voice a distant stray, erring in the ebbing of the night.
This early I always imagine you waking, though your morning lived some time ago a world away. Still, you slip from cool sheets as I stagger over curb and asphalt. You slide into the steam and breathe of a hot shower as I gauge the intentions of commute traffic and water fowl. Something in the beading of water upon your bare flesh. Something in your reflection revealed as you wipe the gray haze from the mirror. A damp towel, a slender thread of dawn. All of my mistakes seem sweeter in these waking fictions and vague conceits.
I clear my throat, I spit into the too green lawns. They arrive in strips and patches, these verdant emblems of membership in owner's clubs and neighborhood associations. Song birds flit and natter, crows stroke bold traces across the sky. Headlights shine and exhaust fumes spill and doors slam and lock. I cross street after street, thinking in post cards and jokes. I imagine something we would talk about as the sun rises and the coffee brews. I imagine talking about nothing, falling into another off beat rhythm. I ease through these travels and transitions, carefully moving through this day ignored.
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