again, Sunday

.....minding its own business the mind backs into the recess left for it in the waken state. Growing consciousness to the throstling birds, finches and crows, as they were, only smaller, before man was added to the planets inventory.

six fifty two and bright soft light of the broken morning. Too late for muslims to eat or drink now. Is it still Ramadan? Finches, thrushes crows falcons and pigeons, make a steady background of chirps, screams, coos and caws, and at this hour there are few cars in the street.

Four and six, bells toll. It is six.

Tablet, water, tooraloo. The things done, that are done work or play or rest.

Cold coffee from the big bialetti, wakens bitter, hissy tinnitus in the right hemisphere, lives there.

Sitting room silent, sons bag on the floor. Clocktick, the French mother sounds every thirtieth second,   switch to the left, switch to the right. Brillie patent.

Early morning car collectors under way, before the ticket makers start their shift.

two times tolling, half hour

time is in flight, until the time is right for the mind to take over and make constructions of the days and the weeks and the months, in the unconscious state where it is king, able to create an order out of the disorder to suit its requirements.  Ruling and associating its items, cleaning its house, until the time comes when the light comes into the window and.........