It is the beginning of the cold months, darker and greyer each night. A frothy cloud bank settles over the town like a blanket, blocking stars and keeping all the noise in. Lights of downtown, small as it is, bounce off the milky ceiling. Bars are filled with chatter dropping in sense by the hour. Occasional street walkers waltz out and sing, cough, and make their way to bed. There is a palpable desperation in the air, as does happen this time of year.
Down across town at the river, each sound is amplified. It is late, past midnight, with few souls out. The warble of geese sound like boozed up, grousing women. The highway above the river valley screeches and mellows, screeches and mellows, only met by the ever-present train blare. All these noises are of a comforting sort. Not to the soul, as a bird song or the trickle of water might be, but to he bustling mind of a sleepless walkers. Surely the train conductors or the backseat passengers in the transit cars are amuck in their own worries, staring out across the grey expanse. It is an odd time of year to be alive.
And maybe it is that word, “alive,” that does not fit. That must be where the confusion starts. It doesn’t capture what is really being lived out there. It indicates a pace and presence, but at this time of year each soul is in scramble for one reason or another.
The fishermen are hasty to get their last days of sunset catching in before the ice hoards consume. The barkeep counts down the minutes, shrugging off pestilent advances from the shrinking, souring crowd. The children are anxious to complete their dues and taste their impending days of rest. The seamstress in her home struggles to pick one more seam, hoping the sun won’t rise tomorrow and she can finally shut her eyes. The dogs become more demanding at any notice of their masters by the door. They know the winds are cold, and soon they’ll become resident to a spot by the fire and spend the rest of the season asleep.
Despite their haste and angst it is in idleness they dwell, all the souls waiting to sleep. Somehow the shortening days grow longer and slower. The minutes tread on nearly painful. Many seek refuge in the God they’ve neglected or did not think to thank in the summer sun. Some waste off, rotting themselves with vapid entertainment. The lovers once sure and sightly let go of their handholds and stare off towards separate horizons. They wonder what is to come in spring. The crops all harvested and canned, the kitchens in lull. All the leaves are trodden down.
In the morning the sky is white again, as if only to tell of another muffled evening. The sleepers and the sleepless stir slowly and rise to walk the dogs. The children stay inside. The wind moves solely through the streets. It is the beginning of the cold months where no one alive still lives.
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