There is something about Sunday, especially rainy Sunday mornings, before the sun has risen and the traffic has picked up, when all the world is quiet and waiting. These are my favorite times when the light is low and gray and the oranges and golds on the trees stand out in rich relief against the matted yellowing grass and darkness of the clouds, when the street is empty and water runs without direction across it, undisturbed and without the constraint of the gutters. Were it not for the gray and the quiet and the soft calls of the geese somewhere above the low clouds, their songs like those of whales, echoing up and fading into some great depth or height, this morning would've been like any other, an ordinary morning with nothing to remember it by. 
At times like this it would be easy to pretend I was the only person awake to see it, that this moment was created just for me. Or perhaps I was merely part of someone else's moment, someone standing in their window with a cup of tea or coffee warming their hands as they watched the man in his rain slicker out for an early morning walk with his dog through the mists in the park, through the canvas of Autumn and the rain and leaves falling all around them.
At times like this it would be easy to pretend I was the only person awake to see it, that this moment was created just for me. Or perhaps I was merely part of someone else's moment, someone standing in their window with a cup of tea or coffee warming their hands as they watched the man in his rain slicker out for an early morning walk with his dog through the mists in the park, through the canvas of Autumn and the rain and leaves falling all around them.
No comments:
Post a Comment