Dawn
They’d come pre-dawn, as if stars, lights first, late hum turning to roar and fading to drum, as if the midpoint of the bedstead led them, each a safe twenty minutes behind the one ahead.
Day changed cleft, and planes’ harmonies deferred to the escalating scales of wind-bourn commutes, eaves’ birds & the click of close car doors the high notes in the symphony.
Afternoon’s school bus growled through The Downs, moving the figure of the farmhand who turned his silent pavlovian back to the roar of the road along which he was coached to school, already always turning towards dusk.
Cherry Coombe 