A crescent moon flees to the south this morning, beckoning perhaps to the dawn that follows in its wake. It keeps company with the woman who delivers the newspaper in her Subaru -- the small plop outside the porch door -- as she keeps company with it.
Soon enough the street lights will go out and rest in whatever hidden lair they inhabit when their work is done ... again.
The day rises up.
Strange to think it should be called "Monday."