Wednesday, April 20, 2011
My eyes feel heavy as if cinder blocks sit along my eye brows, and my skin feels thick as if laid with bags of moss, but the mornings air reminds my lungs how much they love the taste of honeysuckle and cherry-blossom. Long leafy tree-branches reach out over the roads, shadowing the sun that has now begun to rise. My feet clap against the pavement, clic clic clic, my car keys clang between my fingers, and my hair, still damp and scented of tea-tree oil, hangs over my shoulders brushing my neck as I walk. It is still too early to here the hum of bustling cars or the laughter from kids marching in groups of threes or fours along yellow signed school zones; it is still too early to go to the store for milk or pick and poke and prod fresh produce at the morning market; too early to mow the lawn or vacuum the floors, too early to pick up a coffee or get my hair dyed. But the clock lands on the six and as I walk across the cold pavent, clic clic clic, I listen out as the bird chirps' fill the fog and know for someone this day has only begun.