In the darkness of early morn, I walk between the shadows of waning streetlamps and a wind that tastes of coming rain, the sounds of cricketsong and windchimes dancing in my ears.
In these moments, when most residents still lie in slumber, I can imagine I am part of an apocalyptic dream, the last of my kind remaining, hovering within the strange aura of peace and loss the thought entails.
Then I hear the roar of an engine and a car blows through the stop sign near me, as if somehow the law does not apply to what one thinks is unseen. I realize again that I am not alone and that I am not always enamored with those I must share this planet with.
Though if I am honest, I suspect I too at times am part of the walking dead, asleep to my potential, distracted by nothingness, racing towards a destination that in the end holds little value, unwilling to stop and listen to an agenda other than my own.
I return to the safety of the indoors where I spend a few moments in silent reflection of the coming journey. The muffled wail of the train whistle through the window glass is a mournful reminder that I must be on my way.
I leave the table, the surface trembling with the rumble of the passing train, gather my tattered thoughts around me like an old quilt, and step back outside into the evanescent dawn.