Christy Prahl

The Pinking Hour

This is my song to the quiet morning. To waking in the dark when most are still sleeping, save the revelers heading home from yellow beer and a clip of conversation they hoped might lead to sex. We form a sisterhood, we salted thieves of time. The early shifters, tucking into uniform. The farmers in the center of a flattened map, positioning their combines ahead of the sun. Hold still its punctuation: soft paintbrush of a single car driving by, dog barking for the notice of someone who might feed him, the movement of planets hung precariously in the sky. We’ll steal another deep breath before turning on the light, before inviting the din of anchormen, of backpacks slung to noisy children. We welcome the world’s laryngitis before the treasonous clatter of day.