Thoughts on the morning sky
I look up from thoughts of Walden’s thawing ice in Spring, to see the flight of a single Sparrow crossing a changing sky.
No two parts sharing the same color, a vast spectrum of star-rich blue, spreading East, fading into the sailor-be-warned dusty rose. But now it’s changed, and the rose melds with the cerulean undertones. Growing darker in value but lighter in brightness.
Presently, the high fog that envelops our town becomes apparent, hinting at a dismal and secure day to come. But now again it changes: rose no more, only the soft pinkish-orange a modern city on the horizon can give, hinting at some unseen multitude.
Then all is still, and gray.
The agitated masters bark incessantly at the slaves, imploring urgent wakefulness:
“Now rise”, says the mechanical rooster, “Now! See the sky? It is light, and dull, and gray and it’s time for your ablutions”.