The clouds are still asleep at sunrise, resting in the folds of the valley, intertwined with the dewy tree trunks, lying across the still water. As dawn is breaking, the last fibers patience are ripped from my head and I swing myself out of bed and into the day. The car is cold, the windshield covered in a thick, glittering frost. It takes half an hour to warm up. I scald the back of my throat with coffee that hasn't even finished brewing and put the car into gear. Above me, the throaty gasping of the balloons' flames is the only sound in the stillness. No one should be going anywhere at six thirty on a Sunday. I pause at the stoplight to dig out a matchbook and a dented pack of Camels. No one should be smoking at six thirty on a Sunday. For one wild moment, i contemplate Our Lady of Guadalupe, toying with the notion of going to Mass. Intriguing, but the smoldering dawn is too alluring to pass up for the cloister of the adobe. Down on the river, the clouds are still lazing about in the newly made sunshine, sleeping in on Sunday, like everyone else. The birds are just waking, swooping sleepily in and out of the clingy fog, trying in vain to rouse the day. "Get up get up get up!", they chirp and hum.
Get up Get up Get up.