drawn

Some mornings, like today, when I wake in the dark and go to my window that overlooks the town, I feel myself being drawn into its embrace, even though I have no friends here, no family, no employment, no existence, really — certainly not what any of my neighbors would recognize as a life.

By habit (and maybe by nature) I want to retreat from that feeling of being pulled in — out of caution, of course, but also out of a sense that it's a dream: the reality of my life is only just my sitting here, listening to the sounds of the town as it wakes up and begins the business of the day: a far-away wagon beginning to roll, the fire in the forge roaring up, the grit of heels on the cobblestones, a sleepy greeting and a shivering answer, then two share a laugh.

I try to take back my — what? what shall I call that part of me those two strangers in the street have hold of, unwittingly? It's not just my attention: I'm still smiling, as they are, no doubt, remembering the exchange that just passed between them — which included me, though they do not know it, and might not be pleased to find out.

The sky lightens behind the mountain, and the stars begin to fade; a ragged host of clouds drift closer, their undersides dark, with rain perhaps, but more likely it's just leftover night unwilling to get out of bed, for all the crowing of the many roosters — each a dot of noise from a particular spot among the roofs and treetops spread out before my gaze.

Just as I wrote this, the first clanging of the tinny bell on the hillside went silent; now its neighbor responds more robustly, as if to say, Hush, dishpan, *this* is what a *bell* sounds like!

Of course bells say no such thing: each has only one word to speak, its sentence nothing but a list: now now now now now now...

The lamp in the tower window is snuffed; the clouds' undersides whiten as they slide off to the east, their masses thinning against the horizon, breaking up: it will be a lovely morning. Down on the square, the market is opening...