Seven-thirty in the evening. The sky is an angry indigo. Two people walking together look up, surprised. Trying to remember. They, silently, connect the dots and discuss how similar the sky now is to the one that morning. Makes one wonder if time actually mirrors itself. Or maybe the sky repeats itself. Like the history it has watched unfold.
Deep, visceral digging is on for the Metro Rails. Lots of men work fervently in yellow light. Light, that if soaked into some form of handmade paper, would make it look like parchment. Tall rods poking up, straight and narrow. Like spines of upright people who eroded into memory.
A breeze lightly stirs up the faint origins of impromptu poetry. Through that breeze, one hears the rustle of trees. Muted specimens that stand in silent attendance to the din and roar of traffic. City lights shine on high glass windows of office buildings.
The unlikely serendipity of finding a cheery deli to get cappuccinos and blueberry muffins from.
Finally, a sense of wonder and well-being. Finally, an aura of tickling hopes and delicious happenstance. Finally, a thrill. A discovery of how every blessing begins with a word that can be carried forward in a million different ways. Finally, a realization why a month choked with so many, many possibilities should be called (like the first word of every blessing)...what else...