Rain splattered, the storm cloud grey headphones perched half in and out of the backpack. The bluetooth moving out of range, their sound was an inconsistent dribble to the beat of rain on the closeby pane. Quieter they grew. Splutter. Splutter. Silence. Connection dead. And so they sat there, rested, wrested from the demands of the phone. Silence. Silence.
Eyes open! Eyes wide! The clock hands leap as gayest spring lambs. The clock hands sun-sing amid this blessed morrow’s tide. Sound and sight marry as one, bolder in each declaration that true day hath begun. So rise up! Come hither! Grab bonnet and cap! Grab parchment and pen! Bring sweet maple sap! The cold night is banished. The long winter battle is won. A dawn of mirth and merriment announces that happiness hath come.
The clock, knife hands juddering, cut the meanest slivers of time. It minced the barking of dogs and the holy choir to the same pulpy noise-trash. As an ever peeled eye, it glared. Cold it was upon a cold wall all winter long. For the warmer seasons, it cared not a jot. To the beauty of flowers was blind. To the chirping of baby birds it was deaf. Alas, it wasn’t mute and its bland ticking tocks came with a regimented abruptness. It was a beat never to bare the impertinence of sweet lyrics. Its ticks were its pennies and, as Scrooge, to cooly count them was its raison d’être.
The highway was Mozart's doodling pad; the T-bird lane-weaved as a dancing quaver. Bebop-a-lu-ba! It’s sunny yellow paint called up to the summer sun, inviting it to sing along. Green on both sides, the aroma of hope in the air, it cruised on. Engine humming, steering light, the refurbished classic brought happiness to every diner parking lot. It was a promise of classic days with modern updates below the hood.
As a freckle-star tumbled from the heavens, the little house nestled upon the onyx hill. It glowed amid the black of that abandoned mine. Broken slates were its daffodils. Rusted engines whistled in wintry winds. Whipped dust was its only confidant. I saw it from the city, aglow and yet alone. Legends are born in such places, far from the madding crowds. So one day, backpack snug to my shoulders, I made the climb with fullest-heart. Then there it was, a humble concrete dwelling, white painted, cherry window sills and blackest asphalt door. Sunsetting, a hearth fire flickering life into window panes, I raised my hand in request of entrance.
A pumpkin sun pride-inhaled the sweet autumnal air. To the observant eye it did swell full-large. Its rays were radiant smiles indeed, alighting as golden butterflies that believed us the best of blooms. What would the red-gold leaves be without its blessed light? How could they be painted so gay, so warm, so bright? Early though it was, the day opened up as a highway heading beyond sunset and starry night.