Is it a dance? Or a triple scoop ice cream cone top melting down?
I watched a sunrise 20 years ago. I drove out down the back roads of Henniker towards Hillsborough and parked in front of a field. There was no inebriation but the morning.
No, I wept.
Crying is for heartbreak.
Weeping knows the heart by what fills it up.
Crying knows the heart by what shatters it.
With each inch of light over the tree line, I’d weep again.
There were no thoughts in the tears, only a sorrow in the knowledge that that particular sunrise would pass. And a prayer that maybe if I was lucky that day, that particular sunrise would notice that particular young man, and shed a tear of light, the way a creamsicle crayon melts on a sidewalk.