I Am a Night Owl

The world tenses in the small hours of the morning. These sacred hours reserved for the broken hearted and those at rest are quiet despite themselves. The sky glows with clouds lit by an insomniac metropolis that leaks from the concrete jungle. I can hear the cars rushing in the distance from where I sit, a discreet spectator of the night. The resounding dark rings of apprehension as from the west, dark clouds overtake the innocence of overcast. The trees above rustle with restless anticipation and the ground seems eager beneath my bare feet. The first storm of summer is on its way. Even now it brews, threatening the peaceful tranquility of the hour with anger and slow burning passion. It is not an eager storm that approaches, but a patient one. It is willing to give the shadows whatever last serenity they may find as it looms on the doorstep. I know it is coming, even as the nocturnal bird's song crumbles across the night signals the last call before the storm. But still, I linger to absorb what tranquility is left of the evening tide before the winds of change may snatch it from me. When the rain comes with its thunderous friends I will shake in my bones. I have always feared the storm, since I was a child. Lightning sends a shiver down my spine in the distance, cracking the last illusion of repose the quiet had to offer me. A single raindrop falls upon my head.