It’s time to go.
Small trees shadow the length of the high street as Somewhere wakes up. My once warm body, lithe and live a few hours since, casts no complementary silhouette and through ghosted walls and minds I see beneath my friends and neighbours thoughts, their dreams.
Coughs and creaks and kettles gurgle, beating back the sounds of night. Only now can I appreciate the timelessness of dawn, before electricity kicks in to blight the stillness, and in those shrinking hours this smallest village is at peace and has no fear of further attenuation. Radios tune to preference and sound-scape lives, so that no one hears the pulse of nature or feels its ancient rhyme.