A couple of blocks away the low, steady, metallic roar of a train of empty boxcars hurls into the dawn. The prelude sun is late; the symphony begun.
Now winds rouse; a storm comes from the west. Small drops of rain ping the windowpane. Again the sun is beat. Early winter would laugh if it could. I do.
In the drama of living there’s always something new and song springs to mind and lips and pen as paper wings turn inky black. I flap another on the stack.