Changing light

This light is not of the morning.

Warm, dull hues fall on this majestic tree. The bright leaves turn to olive. The grand trunk bathes, in what seems to be, the last trickles of light for the day. Waltzing dark shadows of little leaves caressing it to slumber.

There is the distant chirp of a lone bird.

But the day has just begun.

The lone chirp turns into a cacophony of chirping.

The shadows of little leaves disappear into oblivion. The grand trunk is washed with streaming light from the parting clouds. The olive leaves turn a grass green. Flares of white and yellow light dwarf this once majestic tree.

This light is of the morning now.

Sound

On the other side of the window, there was no sound. No sound of the city coming to life. No beep beeps of the distant horns. No humming of the traffic. No clanking of metal against metal. No muffled voices.

There was only light. Changing light. Patterns forming and disrupting. Flickering flashes. Orange turning yellow turning white. Tightening pupils. Clinging crows feet. Not there yet, but desperately trying to make a mark.

Fingers touched the thick window. A light misty vapour outlining the fingers. Trailing fingers down the dark glass. Smudges. A heavy sigh. The steam forms and with it a new kaleidoscope to the city. Slowing transforming.

Linger.

It was time. To hear the sound.