21 Days From My Window
Outside my window this morning the sky is foggy around the edges. The ground is wet and raindrops drip from the roof of my neighbor’s house. Overhead, five parallel power lines stretch across a corner of the sky. A dozen or more little birds perch haphazardly on them, like quarter notes lining up on a piece of sheet music. A couple of them shake the rain from their feathers, and suddenly they all take flight. They quickly vanish, leaving behind an empty musical staff.
Steam rises in intermittent clouds from the vents on both of the neighbor’s roofs. They drift lazily up into the air and join the misty shroud that lingers in the corners of my window frame. Everything has a darker look about it, soaked in this morning shower. The porch lights still shine from across the street, and the morning sun seems to be sleeping in for a few minutes more.
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