The Night Watchman

The ground mist gathered in the low places illumined by the nascent dawn's light. It drifted about the boles of the ancient trees, moistening the moss that seldom saw even the mid-day sun. It added to the heavy dew already dripping from fleshy leaves like alien rains. A breeze gentled tendrils of the mist down the walk to the black, glistening streets.

Somewhere in the distance something clattered to the pavement and a cat yowled. Then there was silence again. The street was still dark, awaiting the resurrection of dawn. Here and there pockets of light beckoned a wayward son or warded off invasion by miscreants enboldened by the gathered darkness.

A car door slammed and strangers stirred in their slumber; dreams interrupted or redirected by the intrusion. Alarms sat poised on night stands, gathering energy to herald the new day. Tires hissed on wet pavement as night travelers sought refuge against the encroaching dawn.

And the old man sat at his front window. Observing. The gentle hand of Morpheus eluding him. Teasing him with the promise of rest but only delivering inactivity while others slept. Thus it had been and thus he expected it would be. Ever to be watching. Waiting. Hoping to be awakened in his night chair but knowing it would never be so.