The morning winds were ghosts for speaking, whispering through alleys of an ocean not far off, the vigor of a gale that pushed in water worlds away and with it some impression that I’d listened all along. I heard it cold and narrow in a word composed of vanished points, heard it crisp and fugitive where sunrise paints the night in gold and blue to hide it. And they’re brighter than I ever think, the margins of preceding days. They’re sharper now, embodied in the strands of sun escaping from a theory of tomorrow just to wake me to the noise.
Maybe it was just the draw and swell of coastal air, maybe just the way it clung to the canals, and but a breath above the water so to mine it for it’s cold. But here above the blue-black mirror, sated by a wind that sang of something grey and past, a morning born in lucid white broke out from where the sky unfolds, and long before the sound of just another day made heard itself, I watched a ripple fade across the dark reflection here. I watched it sink, like evening had, and vanish into points of sun, and if I could have followed, I’d be just another night.