A Sky that Sprawls for Sparrows


The call of a robin twirls through a periwinkle dawn. This song is the lone noise in the city, and neither the rumbling train nor puffing of bus exhaust disturbs my bedroom. Tranquil. But only on this Monday, Memorial Day. Most other Mondays would be jittery with room for cream and sugar. I lazily roll over to check the time, my body creaking the bed until my eyes are level with the glow of clock numbers. The contraption reads 5:43. Too early for a holiday. Not even the sun is fully awake. Outside, the robins urge me to doze off. Go-to-sleep-go-back-to-sleep they…


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