Dawn’s Forever Rising


Pre-dawn…

Street lights fade,
their tiny soft-winged tenants flee.
Checkerboard facades change,
last night's illumined squares now dark
become but yesterday's portals.
Some polished.
Some weather streaked.
All reaching to reflect first breath.

Steam ascends from the city's vacuum.
Gratings rattle with subterranean yawning.
People-movers wind their way
through mazes of starts and stops.

Topside tracks,
like fixed contrails,
glisten with frost,
not yet enjoined by speeding transit,
their skeletal tributaries
readying the trickle of humanity
into a massive ocean of glass and steel survival.

Uptown.
Downtown.

A street sweeper's tire rubber and swirling brushes
beneath the coverall-believer in Lottos
holds firm the wheel and gears of faith and trust,
gathering gutter-lodged disposal glass and plastic,
paper and cardboard,
Doggy doo and bender upchuck,
spinning into the vortex
washing yesterday's careless cast-offs,
inviting today's street-waste anew,
all reflections of another kind.

Early morning leashes strain from anxious sniffing.
Bladders hold, ready to burst,
seeking just the right tree,
the right hydrant,
the "ah, yes" tail waggle of a canine in the know.

Rays of sun begin spilling down alleyways,
as long-tail rodents scamper for cover,
their bellies full,
seeking safety after a long night of ancient routine,
food from anything,
digestion of history,
all in a night's work.

On schedule…

Full light cascades down avenues and streets,
as itinerant pigeons and seagulls spread habitual wings,
ready to adore the park bench steadies,
the loners,
park walkers,
and window ledge dependables,
the homeless with dance cards of crumbs,
envying the moneyed insomniacs throwing chunks
of baguettes gone stale,
fit for few,
a feast for many,
senses loving the coos and warbles,
the bobbing thank you,
the reciprocal bonding
few but the lonely can appreciate.

Finally…

The steel and glass imitation of nature comes fully alive,
a sun's illumination without reserve,
energy's provision for another day.

Rich mix with the poor,
money exchanges hands,
the hotdog vendor,
the hedge fund taker,
the cookie jar provider.

Most become tomorrow's yesterday,
knowing little of the other light
requiring no rising or setting,
illumination that never grows dim,
the eloquence of nothing masquerading as something,
forever light,
never of darkness.

Such it is for many,
while the seekers of the rare nod at New York’s sunrise,
become this dichotomy like no other,
forever exercising their eyes with their own inner light,
the kind one sees with eyelids closed,
seeking the calm of wisdom
to be dawn’s forever rising.