Those Wee Morning Hours
What's going on at that hour that so disturbs the world?
It's the wee morning hours that can be the darkest, the hardest, the most distressing, something messing with those circadian rhythms.
They'll have you staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows swirl like ghosts, that haunting feeling sinking more deeply in, frustrating hours to be wide awake, unless maybe you're a prowling alley cat. The streets below are cold and dark, always wet with dew, occasionally a lone figure walking a dog, or someone warming their car and clearing their windshield, likely part of an early morning crew. They're silent hours, the wee ones, slack time, too much time, alone way too early with troubling thoughts, apprehensions and anxieties. No one to question you or correct you, to console or comfort you, no one to calm you down or confide in. So, you stare, whether up at the ceiling or down at the street or across the bay, rarely blinking, solitary and solemn, until the sun comes up and fills those dark crevices with light, and the increasing noise of the morning distracts you and pushes aside the worries of the wee hours, at least until another day.
*of!
I always think that I won’t get back to sleep but, next thing I know, the bedroom’s full o light.