If you do ever wake up at 5 a.m. – ease into the day however you prefer – so the sun lets you walk around a stiller neighborhood. A different one.
Roads empty, and it feels proper. The convostarter of what you’d do if you were the last person doesn’t have to be conversation only; it could be a daily experience.
On the walk so popped up a fish carcass, teetering right on the elevated sidewalk. Later on was a flattened frog, almost paper-like and bones probably all dust now. The fish died due to the birds about, and the frog was probably road kill.
When everything is frozen in the morning haze, it’d be nice to fade with it. Where maybe enough time passes and the streetlights start sporting splays of vines – where the main road turns into a cat’s cradle of stringy green, concrete stilts into fingers and cars as anchors.
There’s a crimson flowered tree on one of the suburban houses. If only all plants came with their name, or that they’d tell you it as long as you promise not to cut them down.
Waking up early does feel like fulfilling another promise. Maybe something from the Bible. That you’re meant to be there at sunrise. That sleeping-in meant bathing in parasites, becoming one.
Thoreau petitioned for a good business: one where you’d bottle up the morning air for distribution, to those misfortunate enough to never know it.
Too enamoured with the night dwelling. With its lanterns flying about in its onset, sharp eleven. Ripples through history, whether soldiers of an empire prior or a salarymen of a hidden federation today – multi-conglomerate shareholders waltzing between large names. Names they’ll install at each district section, whether through billboards or even 3D projections. The venus flytrap seems apt, almost adorned as a namesake for these darker hours.
Soft scents leading some well-suspecting into a labyrinth of bowels hiding a desperate bunch – a bunch who knows how to paint it otherwise as long as they breathe, and perhaps as a way to encourage any new blood to feast on. Nevertheless, it leads to another hollow-eyed. Rocking back and forth in alcohol tears, clenching jaws for the come downs. Maybe this night will make the difference.
Mourning doves let themselves be the few sounds in our morning excursion. Interspersed with a clickier bird call, whoever it belonged to will be lost and that’s fine.