The privilege of the best of summer is that going inside is a disappointment.


A Warm Morning (4:00am - 5:00am)

Warmest morning so far this summer, absolutely no chill, u have to swing ur own arms around to feel motion in the air and even then if you can make even a tiny edge of air it still has no chill but you do succeed in making a soft reality that touch more resistant due to your own mad gesture, like how you might deliberately leave string beans a few seconds undercooked to isolate the most delicate possible crunch of. You realize that this is the time that people in the country choose to take for a stroll. There is no sun but some light leaking on the horizon from a place where there is a sun, u feel them still saying goodbye, still looking at it, because the sun is still theirs but can't help but be here too, even though there is nothing like the sun here, all the light is cool light, moved by the atmosphere and not from that star direct. It is right at sunrise that all things have been without sun the longest, without energy, and everything in the landscape is at it's coldest that it will be all day, and again you can’t believe still so warm, there are florid smells that a florists glass enclosure would hold but stifle (wine from a straw) and actually just be poor replicas (late metaphors) of where and in what long aromas felt here (even with most the ground being asphalt) that our natural world held us in as we evolved to figure out how to shrink that experience down for a room in a store. The creatures, diligent families, quick step across streets on their way back to where they hide all day, a bat in the air is well on it's way back too, proverbial vampire before the sun, (because he'd get eaten), but even in it's obvious haste adds extra spoowoops to its flight to nab some final insects. Every 20 meters or so you realize by an orange halo that the streetlights are still on, and you compare with sky’s light, blue as the pigeon's call, the sun is coming but will the day bring those you love. These street lights are about to go out. Drama. Some computer somewhere tied to sky-light detector. Or a solar calendar with the sun rise time of every day programmed into it, silicon stonehenge in a government basement. Trees with names that have become uselessly decorative words like honeysuckle stop signifying anything other than a factual response to how this tree releases quantities of sugar into the air and glued it together. I should have mentioned the songs of the birds, it was them that made me notice all this, they started when it was still dark. Singing louder than I can remember, from all quadrants and seemingly from each point, and from each height, crisscrossing songs everywhere, to each other so necessarily rippling and changing, like a cafe, the jungle obviously, this whole morning, a building the size of today, the rooms habitable and leading into one another.

Additional Info

  • Subtitle: So much is new to me here, walking down a short street might take an hour.
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