Sometimes, in the much too early morning light of still-hidden dawning sun, before the nests have stirred beneath a mother’s yawning, there is a presence to the air that weighs with more than mere humidity. Early riser sits with curling smoke that lazily rises to its flight from steaming coffee and a cigarette. Breathing in the sense of day that settles circling around and pilllowing a heavy heart.
Soon the orange slice of sun, returning home, stumbles up the threshhold from its drunken night in China; sets the horizon wavering with its heat, and young maple leaves quiver in their height from branches at the very tops of trees. But human life is limited to raising coffee to its lips and blowing rings of streaming grey, and eyes that dart about and take it all in.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology