machine

Whirring of machine motors, the newspaper printing plant is an exciting musical in action with no people. Noisy, early, life teeming from black and white pages. Like some great master at work is at some big crank, making it all go. Stars are still outside glistening and twinkling with some ancient knowledge that is only known to those who open their eyes before the sunrise. Some hidden secret walking, waking invisible to the human eye in the daytime. Something about the smell of fresh, hot coffee at 4 AM. Like we’re getting away with something by being awake, by witnessing the quiet of life. To talk is to break the silence, so we sip our black nectar and hear a lonesome train whistle in the distance, like clockwork every weekday morning. Mugs warm our hands. Stars start to say their goodbyes. Who invented this Earth machine? That runs so smoothly? What of the chaos when it comes? What mechanic angel from heaven comes to fix its gears and oil its parts? I am just a worker bee stuck in the machine, buzzing around and cannot get out. So I have no choice but to admire it, and sit in wonder. As our feet dangle of the docks overlooking the bay, I see the moon’s watery reflection swimming about at eye-level. I look up and she is bright.