Cut Quill

End of Day

The mournful wail of a far-off train creases the stillness of the night. He walks through the wavering mist of train-call and fog along the lamplit street. Chill breeze around his arms and ankles, he plunges his hands in his greatcoat pockets. Just then, the cloud-shrouded moon bares her beauty, and glints in copper on the frosty ground.

Quavering fingers remove from a wool-lined pocket, and he crouches to greet the glittering face. Face answers to face, and then to fingers, and the face is slipped into the side of his shoe. He stands, and in a very few steps, under the warmth of his heel, he feels its metallic coolness and press between the sock and leather.

As his hand finds the woolen haven once more, he, almost carefully, places words into the thin, spiraling air.

“’Tis a pity the day is nearly over.”