Lullaby

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, and it’s still nighttime in the early of the morning, I like to open my window and sit to watch Columbia from the quiet of my fifth-floor bedroom. From up there you can see a couple steeples lit in the near distance standing over the dark silhouettes of trees and houses and telephone poles; the foggy sky colored like a sullen orange from the reflection of the city lights; the early-risers’ cars passing up and down College Avenue, whose tires wash along the wet pavement almost like a rhythmic pounding of waves against an asphalt beach. A cool breeze inevitably creeps in, and I could sigh, because sometimes during those little becalmed moments in the middle of no-when, you just have to think of how nice it can be to listen to the twenty-first century as it goes trickling by.