A Minute Before the Hour

I have found that it is always one minute before the hour, and that hour being the last fully dark hour of the morning.
There is silence in the streets, and no cars have yet been filled with luggage, nor has snow been cleared from the windows. No heaters running. Nor, for that matter, any black cars screeching into the drive, coming for you.
Low lamp light spills from each bedroom, laddering the corridors with corn-husk maize colored light. There is yet an imperturbability which reigns.
Water begins to bubble and boil; it just now hits the dark oriental carpet of ground Sumatra, and the odors of every spice island, of every coffee-house, not just Starbuck's but those of Ibn Batuta and those of Samuel Johnson, pervade.

Bones, weary bones, trains of gouty pain moving dinosaurian exhibit in posture-pedic museums! Up! Make haste! The sun is coming, and we must flee the light!

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