As the sun was plucked from the horizon and its light spread like warmed icing across the city, the sounds of waking erupted into the streets like the muted twittering of feathers. They wake from their beds, dressing quickly. Men, making sure their wives don't see the tiredness in their eyes. Women, hiding in shadow, cautious that their men see no sign of refuse on their nightly-tainted skin. Both will forever wonder if the other also wakes, skin brushed lightly with sand. The sleeping dust is shook off in the grayness of the first moments of time. Demurity finds its place at the breakfast table between hand and mouth and later sneaks into the being of daily doing.
The sun brightly rolls by, dragged by leaf-donned children, radio-flyers by day. The smoke leaking from the street grates remains neglected by onlookers.

Later, chimneys will retreat into slate rooftops, giving way to the moon. Light bulbs breathe the last light of day, and click into a robed darkness. Flowers shuddering in the breeze beneath closed shutters, crouch closer to the soil in preparation for dawn's lift off. They curl their petals in on themselves, a meek napping. Water and glass bathes the streets with refreshing light, unadulterating the pavement. One face can be seen, dipped into the pool of moonlight. He licks his lips, closes his eyes (nostrals wide like the mouths of unearthed caves) and shuts his front door. In the morning he will pretend to sleep late so he can watch the woman, morning, rise. At the breakfast table, he will look at her closer: noticing her eyelashes accented by sparkling sand.

10/31/2004

Posted on 11/02/2004
Copyright © 2024 Gabrielle L Gervais