On the Edge of the Dawn

Soon, it begins.

The harried words flowing from fingertips to outer space, only to be wrangled back into some form our eyes can understand and translate thusly to our brains and minds and souls.

Soon, plot outlines will become bits of chapters and character sketches will take on depth and form and move about on a stage that, up until now, only existed on crammed together notepads. Soon, personas will take on flesh and names will bear attitudes and words to convey them with. Dialogues will ensue, as will events and occurrence that lead inevitably to the end of the novel.

You may have guessed it, or if you are still as ignorant as I was only a few weeks ago, you will never have a chance. If you have guessed, then you are correct. The first of November is quietly, stealthily approaching. But, this year, I will be ready for it.

And, when the day dawns, I pray for Godspeed and endurance, as I will need it. For when the day dawns, I will sit down at this very spot and begin to weave a tale to end all tales. Or, perhaps, simply to compose a list of details and characteristics long enough to stretch enough pages and contain enough words, so as to be called a "novel".

Only the end of November and the dawning of the winter will tell the tell-tale truth of my abilities as a writer. At this point, I am very optimistic.

You will soon see how long it lasts.

A Glimpse of the Dawn

When the ivy stretching across the small stadium turns blood red, and the gentle wind carries with it its undercurrent of coolness, I know that what makes this city beautiful is about to return. When the mists and fog that settle over the street lamps at 5 am do not dissipate by the time the orange disc of the sun floats through them, on its ever-continuing trail across the sky, I know the time of the wind and the rain and the long afternoons spent in silence and over tea are approaching.

When the sun falls tired early on and is in the west by the time I arrive home over the mountain, stomach grumbling for a decent dinner; and when I see the flocks of starlings mingle with the flights of geese in the early sky as I ride my way across this city, I know that the Autumn is coming, and winter is eager on its heels.

Soon, the chill will turn to ice and the vibrant splashes of color will fall to the ground as leaves weary from the year they have spent atop the trees, baking in the over-vibrant summer sun. Soon, scent of rain on the air will be a morning ritual and the sun will hide its pale face behind a mask of grey. Soon, scarves and mittens and coats bundled around our necks will be the warmth that travels with us, stripped off upon reaching the comfortable din of our choosing.

Soon, the bakeries and tea houses and coffeeshops will be abuzz with all the life, straggling in from the cold to get a bit of warmth and thaw their frozen fingertips.

Soon, this city will be alive with the life that I saw in it last year, last Autumn, last winter. When cars were trapped behind bales of snow and heavy shoes were donned in order to arrive at the coffeeshops and cafes just as hungry, just as safe. But with a light in their eyes that no summer could deny.

Soon, the briskness of the city's true nature will bring its inhabitants back to life, and we will glow in the warmth of our domains, our eateries, our sidewalk cafes that teem with a life we may well have forgotten in the heat of this passing summer.