The fog was lifting slowly, keeping Harold in his dream. It was oddly cold for spring, and beneath his window crocuses had not begun to bloom. Harold moved in fields so warm and humid that it seemed as if he’d found himself in the open space between his lips.
It was getting late, too late, and Harold new even in his dream that time was not for him. He was only barely lucid when a Jaybird’s intermittent song passed by above his head, breaking into single notes that stuttered in his ears. Harold watched them pass like trickled water, spreading horizontally and glinting the opacity of his increasingly tenuous dream.
Nine o’clock came quickly. Harold knew somewhat limply that he was an hour late for work, but he had to wait for something still, some notion that he had before reality fell around him, before his lips closed in and kissed him back awake. Time swung with opulance, riding in a sultry southern breeze, roaming lush and fragile through the open jalousies.
The Jaybird’s song continued in the loosened condensation, and Harold began to hear so vividly the tune that he swore beneath it might’ve tapped the Jaybird’s spurs. Then Harold saw the bird itself, slender, precise, nodding unaware or unconcerned that it had left one world and crossed into the next.
“My little Jaybird,” Harold said inside a deeper breath. “I haven’t got the time to hear your song.” And the Jaybird nodded as it walked, agreeing time was not for Harold anymore. Harold’s humid space began to thin, growing arid as his dream relaxed. “It could be a pleasant day,” Harold told the Jaybird. “If only you’d stayed outside this dream, let me lay inside this kiss and disregard the dawning sun.” And the Jaybird bobbed and sprung away, fanning Harold’s face with cool, blue morning beneath its wings.
Harold heard the clock-tick slow a touch as he sluffed away a film of sleep, and in between the gaps of time the Jaybird sang its call, kissing Harold sweetly in the vacant spots where seconds break and minutes are but distant thoughts and hours only theories not yet proven, the chasms where the present is a waking dream, a kiss of fog beneath the sun, a respite from the day.