Sunday, May 13, 2012
Pre-dawn in Dolores Park. An inked city.
Me--alone, cold, self-conscious.
I come to watch the moon devoured by the murk,
and hope there is no one watching me.
I shouldn't feel like this, and yet I do.
Hiding inside myself, I watch for the change.
Several vapored breaths later, there is no moon.
Instead, an amber ball of smoke hangs.
Eerie and beautiful, the moon regards me in this vulnerable state and
says to me: See. I am the one who is odd. No one stares at you.
I smile in gratitude, and go to return to inside, warmth, normality.
But I see that the city changes.
And it implores me to stay, to
witness its freedom from night's hold.
I acquiesce, and climb higher in the park to freeze myself to a bench.
Nautical dawn introduces itself, bows with languid grace.
Blue light is born from behind lamp posts and attic windows.
Awakened life arrives on two legs, four legs, four wheels.
The city breathes and stretches after its forced sedation.
The sky presents a wayward rainbow--deep blue, light blue flecked with pink,
a moment of lifeless pale, and then ever warming gold.
And then the solar photons rain down.
I dislodge myself from the bench, and head into my day.
Sounds bounce off pavement and grass--
plastic scraped on pavement, voices, horns. Brash, with ever increasing hurry.
The day, so young, already begins to lose its innocence.
Post-twilight. Dolores Park again, on my way home.
Relaxed, confident, comfortable.
I pause to see this park in its evening wear.
Now--fire dancers, barbeques, children out too late.
The park and city unashamedly present themselves as they are.
An alabaster moon arises, bold and naked, triumphant in its return.
There is a different feel in this evening between us--the moon, the city, the park, myself.
The dawn showed us dark, meek, altered. Trying to be quiet and unnoticed.
We saw each other through that, acknowledged the strange beauty within and without.
Appreciated the rare deviation.
And now we regroup in the other darkness, back into our standard beings.
Recognize each other with congratulatory wonder. A connection is forged.
Walking home, we exchange smiles and nods, altered by this understanding.
- San Francisco, CA
- Elissa is an east coast transplant making her way through life by way of San Francisco. This amazing city provides lots of fodder for writers of all types. I find inspiration for writing through life's little and bizarre events, such as grocery shopping for dog treats, salamander hunting, and insomnia. I am a preschool teacher in "real life."