Yesterday's Storm

The storm passed and left a day like a cool remark in its wake.  

I sat alone in the gloom of the cold predawn morning and thought about what I'd just seen and heard in the night.  I poured my second cup of coffee and stared outdoors at nothing, not really noticing how absent the sky was of yesterday's abuse.   I wrote a few checks, read the headlines in the morning paper, thought I'd straighten up a bit.  After a bit, I was back at the table, cradling my cup between my palms, lost in thought.

The dishes in the rack dried silently, and one drop of rinse water hung ambiguously off the tines of a fork.  

I saw light playing on the cracked and broken asphalt out in the street, beyond the cracked panes of old glass and peeling paint.  A crow, black as obsidian, worried at a lump of something lying on the pavement.  It flew indolently away, wings rustling like a silk jacket.  

The clock ticked, patient, or impatient.  I was no good at telling which it is and tired of trying.  

I'll tell you my story now and just see where the pieces lie when I'm done.  You be the judge of it, like you always are.  Maybe you'll see some sense in it, who knows.  Every time I look back at it all, I can't make heads or tails of it and, to tell you the truth, I'm not sure I care anymore.  It seems injurious and indecent to just keep it to myself for years more than I already have.  Like I said, I'll tell it, you be the judge, and then I'll be on my way, like yesterday's storm.