Monday, March 24, 2008

Monday, March 24, 2008. This is this mornings first chance to actively breathe. This is your morning wake-up call.

(A series of empty rooms.)
Oh, the steps we take skipping cabs and buses, the train. The setting sun accosting the sides of buildings, golden grey's and red brick shimmer in sight along with twig-limbed trees who shake in the breaths of wind. We step over grates onto chipped cement, a broken loaf of bread, birds flown from branches to snip it's presence. The chill hits first along circled ear with bikes passed and early closing bars based on the holiday. Theater and restaurants, the two guarantees to be awake. We wish for frozen sign posts and claim the winter as a dull one but secretly miss our Texas dust still embedded in our jeans, the blisters from boots too snug and waking up in newly pitched tents sleep in our eyes and the sound of running water but no sign of a creek. They swear all the lakes were made by man, but we've all dug trenches and stuck filled them with buckets of ocean, buckets only called pails when in such sandy spaces. Oh how the tops of buildings tend to line up equally if horizontal, how they tower when coming in to a point. We notice street posts we'd never seen before, even if they her planted years before we arrived, and little balls, not berries, hanging out of trees. Each holds a plastic bag, from a distance, staring us down as a nested bird. We skip the cab and watch the spokes spinning, even when pedaling moving too fast for us to really see. Oh, and wake up.