|Zelko Nedic (via Magpie Tales)|
There is always one hair that hides in the moustache of my beard, waiting until the trimming is done before poking its head out to see what is happening. I play with it between tongue and lip as I sit on the porch, feet on the rail as pistons, pushing the chair in a gentle rhythmic glide.
Stars still hold the stage, having yet slipped to back up behind our sun. Night creatures prickle at the edges, on leaves, over mulch, along sharp blades of grass. No cars on the streets yet, no one has anywhere to be but in bed---dreaming.
I disagree with Aristotle, it's not just dreams that blur the lines between good & bad people.
A disembodied pinprick of orange winds the road, its soft glow capturing the man's lips and chin before lowering by his leg. His dog's eyes glimmer in the moonlight, the rest of him in shadow. The click of his claws on the asphalt send Morse code messages to stray cats or squirrels---clear the road.
Every morning they walk this way. He smokes. The dog periodically stops to mark a bush. It is cooler than what the day will bring when they retreat in the house. Unseen again until morning. Click. click. click.
All the secrets of the universe may reside inside him, his mind turning them round as he surveys all in the night---I don't know, he never speaks. They never alter their course, down and back in the quiet. Maybe he's our guardian, or---
He cleans this throat of the previous day and spits, the dog pays no notice. Click. click. click.
There is a soft rattle of keys as he steps into the pool of light by the door to his house, back to me, dog obedient by his feet. Their door opens into darkness and they disappear within. The door closes, light goes out.
In a pregnant moment of silence, stars fade, as our sun sends its first rays across the mountains.
I cross the porch, deck boards creaking and enter my own home, to find scissors, the hair having lost my interest.
written for Magpie Tales.