A debris of specs flow through me as thick cream.
The lull texture of the olive green checkered couch, sleeping.
The scent of the last lingering bits of wood ablaze in the woodstove, waking.

In the early morning before anyone would arise,
I would rub my tired eyes and by settle the window
to watch life stand still for a while.
Few cars passed by in these early morning hours.
Stray cats at ease lying on the thick yellow lines painted in the middle of the street.
Only dark silhouettes of tree branches revealed,
thick charcoal veins bleeding into the glass windows of attics.
An illusive manifesto.
It was silent, street lights still gleaming orange, noiseless...

Birds perked out of their clever nests singing.
This was the only time of day their divine chirps could not be interrupted
by motors, sirens, wood saws, stereos, grass cutters;
their songs often become ignored, white noise.
The sun would swell up upon the tall red house next door.
The world becoming alive, stars being put to rest.
I would stare up into the sky watching the mosaic
black speckled canvas disappear, fade into a lighter shade of purple, then blue.