It’s almost like it’s floating, you know. On the surface. The aftermath of the night, glowing darkly there until the sun’s orb breaks the horizon line. It’s rolling below now, I can feel it.
In the hours before the sun rises, the streets of this beachside village are sleeping. Water is lapping tenderly at the sand. The first to rise are the birds, who call quietly at first, rudely, in nothing like a melody. No, the song is in the sky, beyond the horizon. The opposite of a lullaby, all backward words and quickening breaths. It sings the sky awake.
Then, with the hand of a weary factory worker, the sun takes back its familiar jigsaw pieces of the day; of dawn, daybreak, breakfast, morning, noon. Swinging a parabola through the sky. There’s no stopping it now.
Tomorrow we’ll wake again at 4am, and we’ll catch those fleeting minutes a few seconds later than today. I don’t know what to call it. Moments like this don’t have a name, because they’re just a wait. The space between the time after, and before. Rolling.
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