My Town.

I wake up to a chilly November morning. Frost hugs the grass, running its icy fingers through the blades. I walk onto the porch, inhaling the crisp pre-winter air into my lungs. The outline of the mountains loom in the distance like a quiet giant, napping on a bed of dew. The sky looks like as if an artist had dripped pastel paints all over a blue easel, letting the light pinks and purples swirl …

…the silence of nighttime as the auburn haze blankets the town. The lighting that means to light the way for coal barges on the river, also serves as an unnerving, terror inducing, night light in the velvet sky, contested only by the long face of the moon . For now, I will try to sleep, not letting the usual sound of the coal train or the hourly toll of the church bells take advantage of me.