Morningtime

It is...
         the smooth blank slate of morning, moon-bright, blinding. The wind flickers against windowpanes, drives air down past the stained cream white faded white bricks. In the grey morning sky bright birdsong like glitter cracks the air; the people still asleep, breath weighing down the air, waves on sand. At some time somewhere someone flicks switches, the snaps like twigs.
    Now the kettle roars, lights scatter shadows, alarm clocks slip into life- lines of cold clinical bluesound scorching sleep. Fridge door and cupboard door and wardrobe door, knives and spoons and plates: they clatterbang raucous as parrots.
    Still that sodium buzz of light is rising, rising- comfortless, electric, preceding the sun. The sun.