Four Thirty

Time stops in the dark. Before dawn, it yawns and stretches. Putters. Lingers. Moseys. Puts on coffee. And sits. Waits. Makes room. I remember endless time before clocks and counting, when the first day of school and the last were drawn out like Highway 16, Macon to Savannah. Nowyearscram instead of   c   r   a   w… Continue reading Four Thirty