Nocturnal Visitations

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

There is a light that comes past my window early in the morning. It's not that bright, certainly not bright enough to wake me from a deep sleep. Unfortunately my dreams have been troubled lately and worse yet, broken by urgent calls of nature that treat my veil of sleep as if it were Caesar and they were angry senators.

I'm certain that the light was there long before I ever noticed it. There hadn't been a reason for me to be up in the wee hours of the morning for ten years. The facts are thus: It shows up somewhere after three am and before proper sunrise. It passes by the width of my window and vanishes. The color is hard to pinpoint. At first I thought it was blue or green but each time I settled on a color, I found myself second-guessing it until there I couldn't come to a conclusion. It was as if the color itself defied description.

The room I rent is on the backside of the house and looks into a small garden fenced in by high brick walls. So where does this light come from and why does it watch me so?


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