Pythagorean song

The day shift, early start. Leaving the house, i feel as if i've been let out, or let off somehow. i get to be under the sky at last. i walk a little lighter.

This is a liminal time, the time between home and its obligations, and work and its obligations. For now, i have neither.

At the bus stop the dawn begins, and under the low light i can see each dew drop on each blade of grass. i move, and they iridesce for me. Each blade is a house, and the lights are on in Grassland! Briefly, i get to tend this tiny world.

The bird tree across the road roils and shudders with birds. They are all noise this morning. They dart to my side of the road, and pause, and dart again, undulating in short flight.

A small flock of pigeons rises up; they wheel and turn and head South. They do this at the same time every morning, their movements governed by an algorithm only they understand. 

And then the sky starts up. By now i can see rank upon rank of serried clouds, lined up like the keys of a xylophone set sideways, against the sky. The bottom one lights up pink. Every minute or so the next one lights up. i feel the build up of it, my ribs strain with amazement. The clouds light up, one by one, higher, and i expect a crescendo. i am by now alarmed. What will happen when the light gets to the top one? Will the sky burst into some Pythagorean song - or will i be left with my mouth open and my arms uplifted, like some stricken Pentecostalist?

Then the bus comes. Honest to God, the bus comes. i get on it, with everyone else, and go to work.