It was that sort of glorious summer morning; things were pending, but not pressing. Humidity broke late in the night and up went the windows, thrown open with abandon to let the cool, almost fierce southerly air push its way into the house, knocking aside curtains, wending upstairs to clean out heated corners.
The coffee was strong and the bagels crunchy; crumbs falling on the cooling carpets. In the far distance there were four lone, long blasts of a train whistle; a reminder of lives in other places and those living out other purposes.
The neighborhood was silent. One mourning dove cooed for a bit and ceased. No one was around. A full moon lay on the calendar while August was quietly birthing…
690 Saint Paul 