Monday morning, five o'clock, and still dark out. I'm glad to see summer passing, especially this year, but I always begin to feel a bit better when the night lingers a bit longer. Later in the year, I'll be sad to see the days ending so soon, but night ending later pleases me.
I hear the morning commuters driving down the road a block away. The silence between cars grows shorter as day nears. The sound carries a long way in the still, cool air. In winter, my windows are closed and I never notice the early morning traffic, but this time of year it is like an alarm going off, telling me that the time to sleep is near. Sometimes it reminds me of those years when I was not nocturnal, and when I rose early myself and went off to some busy place with that moving crowd. I will remember waking streets with lights winking out, buses full of silent passengers, the smell of coffee in diners, the rumbling trucks banging the loading docks of downtown factories, crowds surging through depots where murmuring echoes ran across the ceilings and out to horn honking police whistle newsboy shouting streets filled with the smell of diesel fumes and ozone crackling from passing trolly cars. I almost miss it, sometimes.
But now, I get to close my windows and shut out the day and sleep in the dim quiet, perhaps dreaming those strange dreams I sometimes half remember of wandering among decaying buildings along deserted city streets, looking for something I might have lost, or might never have found to begin with.