Morning casts a different light than dusk. It isn’t in the angle. You know it not by the orange juice glow, nor the crispness the air holds, but by the tiny voice, that one that lives in the light and says, “Okay, let’s go.”
That isn’t a metaphorical “let’s go.” It’s not the voice of a new day. Those are quieter, anyway. This voice is the one that tells you that all you came here to do is done, and it’s time to move on.
So let’s move. I knew this town was done with me years ago. I didn’t want to come back. It’s all ghosts and echoes and empty sentences said to an empty sky. I want that vista filled: castle spires of glass and steel girders. Ants thronging the ground. A hum. A people hum, like motors and conversation and the electric grid singing all life life life that we’ve come now to know, how can it be otherwise?
I outgrew this place before I left the first time. By the dawn light, you can see it cramped end to cramped end, a little suburb of nowhere. It wants to be lazy and electrified. It wants to be, it wants be, and isn’t.
So the sun comes up. The horizon is painted candy colors. I want to put it in my mouth.
“Okay, let’s go.”