It ain’t much, because it’s missing the element of presence. If you’re not standing here, you can’t hear the song of the robin that’s ignoring the night. You can’t smell the sausage and bacon cooking nearby. The way the mist of the clouds hangs on the ground. The colors that selfrender and beguile. You would be wrong to think that the parking lots aren’t worth a second look. Our lives are much more comprised of such places than they are of landscapes and bright moments.

It’s an impossibly early Saturday morning. Quiet and unformed. Most of the trees are leafless and cast silhouettes suited for metaphorical thoughts or Tim Burton movies. 

I see Xmas lights beginning to multiply in anticipation of the upcoming holidays, the ones overshadowed by a perplexing lack of charity in a lot of people’s hearts. All the lights are pretty, regardless of their complexity or colors. I can only guess whether they are put out from obligation or glee.

I often think about the fact that my days are a meal in reverse sometimes. The quiet hours of wandering your streets are the entree, while the remainder seems anticlimactic.

The Great Santini chased me down. I always look for him if I circle the dark block across from the railroad tracks. He likes to tease me by running around me in circles with his tail up. Only Pat Conroy fans will understand why I named this beautiful playful orange cat The Great Santini. He walks with pride and I only see him in the early pre-dawn hours.

Beginnings and endings are always the same at 3:00 a.m.  Some are barreling toward our own 3:00 a.m. while others are just out of the gate.