Sunrise, or Lack Thereof

It's 5:39 AM. I haven't slept all night.

Not only haven't I slept, but I find myself in the curious position of sitting cross legged on the roof.

As the blanket of darkness begins to lift, the neighbor’s dogs spot me and their robber-sensors go haywire; but the strange thing is that only one voices his opinion about a mysterious shadowed figure climbing onto the roof at five in the morning.

Three roosters crow in what could only be coincidental succession.

I begin to see everything clearer and at first think that perhaps my eyes adjusted to the darkness surrounding me. But then, when I gaze back up at the cloud congested sky, I see that the cracks between them have grown lighter. From that moment on, the spaces between the clouds continue to lighten every second that passes by.

The dog continues make a fuss until Rosa wanders out to the back of her property to see why the hell her dog is barking so persistently. She finally sees me on the roof and her steps turn slow, I watch, staying still, as she pulls something from her pocket. I assume a cell phone and instantly throw up my hand in a friendly greeting. I sit up straighter; she realizes it's me and waves back.

The foothills begin to materialize all around, shaking the mist and fog free from their sands. The blatant odor of fish and salty beach begins to fade, melting away with the night. A faint light covers everything now, in preparation for the sun to arrive.

The constant hum of the Pan-American highway does not cease.

Birds chirrup from left and right, in front and behind, above and below. Some zip past, anxious to begin the day, while others stay safely tucked in their nests, uncertain of what the day will bring.

The orange street lamps begin turning off in a wave, street by street.

The hole in the clouds catches a few rays of morning sunlight, changing the faded blue to a light peach. I become sad once I realize that I won’t be able to see the sun climb over the mountains.

The air is still, but the morning chill still hangs there, motionless. The Peruvian flag does not twitch and the leaves of the trees do not rustle.

The last of the street lamps die out.

I can feel the fabric of my jacket absorbing the morning dampness.

I pick myself up with dirty hands and a dusty rear, my hope shattered and disappointment evident. I hop down off the roof of the patio and slip underneath it, jumping down onto a bucket, out of sight of everyone and everything but myself.

I slap my hands together to rid myself of the grime and murmur unheard apologies to Rosa.

That damn dog is still barking at me.