In the morning I sit on my bed.
Sunlight blinds my left eye while the shadow of hummingbirds flicker like a silent movie in the window.
I read a book with my right eye and drink coffee from my cup.
Carl is next to me having his own experience of the morning. This is the quiet denial before the loud reality of daytime sets in.
Morning is the time of coffee and books and of writing stories in pencil.
“The things you like about me now,” I told him once, in the days before he was broken hearted, “will probably be the things you hate about me later.” By “later”, I meant now.
I don’t know if he was listening then but he seems disappointed in the way things turned out.
I know my time here is running short.
Life is waiting but it will not take me for its lover until I’ve had a shower.
I should get off the bed and go face the day but something I read this morning takes me back to The Dark Continent, where the cradle of life rocks back and forth to quiet its bitter children.
With star shine like sadness in the sky,
a lone beast runs with the thundering ghosts.
This is Africa now:
trophies and tusks.
On The Dark Continent a patient spider sits in the dwindling shade of a one leaf tree.
With eyes that see in all directions it sees itself; once a great predator, now a vacant exoskeleton.
A lifetime of bones and teeth fade into the dirt but from the mountain tops everything looks the same.