Pilgrimage to Weaverville

Pilgrimage to Weaverville

The evening is black out time. 

It is a lucky time to be tired and fall quickly asleep. 

The morning can be simply rushed. 

Off like a race horse to the sound of the clanking pipes when the boiler kicks in. 

Or the morning can be slow. 

Contemplative. 

Especially on a day born below zero and swaddled in a mango-colored sky.

Nothing is decided from under the covers at six a.m. 

The day is a map. 

It unfolds its complicated structure but can not be recombined to its origins. 

No matter how long I lie

between the blankets

studying the roads and planning the ride,

the sunrise only illuminates squiggly lines on imaginary paper. 

The daylight trip is always a surprise.

A hard day on a pile of rocks,

a trip to the store for groceries,

a pilgrimage to Mecca

or to Weaverville. 

It is all the same at six a.m. 

By seven the thoughts set aside when I put on my socks will be gone. 

Puffs of smoke or high, pink clouds

that the sun has burned away. 

Vague dreams drowned in a cup of coffee.