There is an edge to the dark, a hint of danger in the peace, the silence. Then again, the silence is a warm cocoon; it wraps around the sharp, dingy edges of the metallic dumpsters full up of discarded belongings and hopeful rats. Suggestions of birth and renewal pull at the corners of the damp street. Cracked pavement settles for the water as it builds, and holds secrets of a thousand past footsteps, life stories. There is sweetness, protection, and a mixture of foreboding that lingers in the tombs of hollowed out buildings.
An altogether overwhelming sense of urgency and beckoning is dusted off the overgrown trees, leaves, and falls onto begrudging shoulders. Let us move on, then. Propel us toward pulling open the door, and facing whatever exists on the other side. The dark night has grown too cold, but exactly what type of shelter are we headed toward, anyway?
Thanks for putting me in the #1 Top 100 spot for the first time on Rice Bowl Journals:
