morning walk

on gray mornings like this, i remember some place else.  although remembering could mean a whole different, whole new thing.  not the kind that re-collects the past, and assembling it into some kind of fiction in the prose of thinking.

in some other place, it is also gray like this.  maybe also in the middle of june, or the beginning.  and there is always the promise of rain.  maybe there is also a cool breeze, the kind that partly bites and i am wearing a sweater, the reversible kind.

when it is gray and quiet like this, i imagine walking to a place somewhere else.  the time would stretch into a stillness, the sun would never rise.  keeping low like this, behind the clouds that are gray.

there will a few trucks on the road and their cargoes heading to destinations far.  still, a number of cars, glassed, just as isolated.  there are a few wet leaves on the road, a few branches that had fallen.  and if paid closest attention to, a hint of salt in the breeze. 

i imagine remembering a dock at the far end of the road.  and a bar where one could order a hard drink.  there, there are no mornings, just dusk.  and the at windows, a skywide picture of an eternal sunrise or sunset.