evening

[xaara]

The church bells toll six o'clock. I saw the sun rise this morning, shivering on the front stoop with a good friend while the smoke from his cigarette grayed the air. Sometimes the sun rises and it's just a sunrise, just light coming over the horizon. Sometimes the sun rises and it's a miracle.

I woke to the afternoon sun warm on the back of my neck, rose and made scones with walnuts and maple syrup. When they crumbled, they smelled like warmth, like comfort, like the song of the long summer day.

I wore a skirt with no stockings, paused to photograph a group of northern Italians who grinned at me from their position in front of the capitol building, arms looped over their friends' shoulders. Three, two, one, click. No, no, prego, di niente. Sì, frequento l'università qui a Madison. È veramente una città carina, no?

This place feels like home for the first time in ages, feels like somewhere I might like to spend the lazy wonderful summer. I can't wait until the semester is over. I can't wait until I have time to make breakfast. I can't wait until the farmers' market opens again, until I can rise at six on Saturdays and feel the pull of the morning in my stretching thighs.

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