A train in winter

It’s dark. Early. Only an occasional car passes through the wet street. Not even the birds are awake. The sky is streaked with gray clouds dimming, and the stars are still visible. Inside, the fragrance of coffee is wafting through the chill of the rooms, and the grandfather clock has just pinged it’s last note for the four am hour. 

Reading through midnight, until my eyes were heavy laden, I scarcely put down The Thirteenth Tale and turned off the lamp, that deep sleep shuddered over me. Three hours. A nap. Perhaps my mind has my days and nights confused. Perhaps there is something to be known. In this hour. In this night of day.

Trickling off the roof is frost, slowly melting down windows and dripping out of rain-gutter spouts. Goings-on reserved for this time. This hour. There is no chatter over the rail bridge this morning. No whistle echoing through the mountains or skipping across the river like so many stones. I had hoped.