It wasn’t bright this morning.
I woke to rumblings of engines,
Squeakings of tires, scrunchings of bare earth.
Snatches of conversation walked on the window panes.
It wasn’t quiet this afternoon.
Through the curtains the sky roiled,
Low and grey and fell.
It wasn’t warm this evening.
As the sun looked over its shoulder,
The electricity left for the night life.
The heat wandered off.
The cold stood still.
Le Ciel est Bleu 