Again, it is morning. Body heavy and stiff, sunlight lithe and buoyant: it is morning and it is Sunday, and everything is always as it should be, even in the face of the most unknown.
Last night came the first drops needed to pull these hills from drought. They fell into the earth, the gutters, my window unit; they fell into the cracks of the sidewalk, the coffee shop; they pooled in my neighbor’s white plastic chairs.
Finally, after the flash and thunder, they gave way to morning. Of course, something always gives way to morning. The night can’t handle its own hushed activities, repressed fulminations. If morning didn’t cut off the night, then what would become of all of us? Awaking in its cold depths, aware of some implacable activity, a place only my trusty space heater can reach, static energy without a locus.
On my desk I have a wooden picture frame etched with a nautical chart of San Francisco Bay. Angel Island, Yellow Bluff, Sausalito: they are all here, and whether or not you choose to forget the meaning of words and allow your tongue to speak only sounds, they are all treasures, phonetic masterpieces.
I imagine the boats pulling up to the islands this morning, floating airily on billions and billions of raindrops. The sun hasn’t been up over San Francisco for more than an hour or two now, and already I am jealous of their new-found morning, their sailboats lolling in the bay, the sounds of water and early light and banished night, the traps coming up out of the sea, and the sound of rain that comes up below them as they’re hauled up onto the deck.
As much as my body resents the water, I’m imagining these morning-stiff joints, fortified with coffee, stretched out on the deck of some sailboat like the Vitruvian Man, my aches rolling out into fingertips and toes as the boat rocks back and down, fore and aft, scudding on near nothingness, and all tension vaporizing with each lapping of the waves.
Sunday morning rouses an urge within me to simply yaw into infinity. But then, of course, there would be no mornings; and, lonesome for the dawn, life would be but a constant returning, a hymn sans Mattins.