Still Life With Dishes

It’s early in the morning. A residue of moonlight still coats the sky, and on my walls it paints a golden blue patina. I turn in bed to face the window, so I can smell the sun in the distance lift the dew from blades of grass and change it into air.

Dishes clatter from behind an open door below me, and it seems that all the nearby alleys vibrate outward in concentric circles from the sound. I close my eyes and listen to it swell, listen to it ripple back and forth around me as if I were the silent epicenter of some inconspicuous accretion. Perhaps I wander away for just a moment as the din mumbles through a narrow gap in the open window, rustling the drawn-back curtains as it moves. But I return.

A woman calls into the air, which is turning blonde and rests on layers of violet red horizon. Her voice pierces the rhythmic sounds of waking, and it finds a man who replies as if anticipating its arrival.

I try from just their pitch and timbre to interpret what they say, but there’s something in between the words, some substance in the unmade sounds that lull in subtle pauses, shadows in a bas-releif discreetly speaking with the changing light.

A door is closed, and for the instant nothing breathes. The sharp silence in a needle skip that grabs a piece of time.

I languish in the trace of quiet, just before the day breaks loose again.

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