Her glassy eyes sulk heavily
As if she is fighting eternal sleep.
She sinks her onyx gaze into the pitfalls of a bleached, white
Dusting, resting atop the perennials along the cobbled sidewalks.
Chapped and splitting fingertips touch the cold glass;
Foggy vestiges of contact reflect inwardly
Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning,
She whispers in a breath to her chest—
An inhale of penitence.
A storm is coming
Over the horizon through the billow
Of rolling clouds that charge electrically toward her.
She can hear the nearing of the train
A distant, and ascending hum, searing past
From within one side of her head to the other.
The rush of traffic and people and children and waking animals
Wanes in a stone wash
One droned note of passing
Like the haunt of a shadow in her mind’s eye
It disappears as quickly as the morning has returned.