Observer

by Madison Roe

I sat back and watched the sunrise today. I watched an orb of light bleed into the clouds, as an east wind picked up, howling in the ears of beating things willing or unwilling to listen. Birds croaked out in protest at the sudden shift in nature. The moon shriveled away, not used to such sharp tones. I could hear the man with the hairy back yelling through the cheap insulated plaster, for his ungrateful offspring to get out of bed, or was it at the wife with the fried skin? Both were unappreciative pieces of shit in his bloodshot eyes. A muffled sound of resentment was the only response. Can’t blame them for the animosity that rolls off the back of the breeze. Swirling and swirling like the cream in my coffee. The man walks onto his back porch. He looks at the sky then turns to me.

“Morning.”  

“Morning.”