Fans whirring a soft melody to sleeping babes, the in and out of dreams heaving through the lungs into the membranes of their unfolding selves.
And I am awake.
Brain a flurry.
There is nothing new, under the sun, the spell of life, the coming into being.
Done now. Done again. And before. As it was in the beginning, when the rooster crowed, and time began its march to the tune the sun pounded out, it's cadence clear.
You shall go, on and on, and so, there you have it.
And I am un-new. Not old. Not new. The memories of before seem like freshly roasted coffee beans, pungent in their aroma, still there, still tempting, still keeping my pulse flitting in the healthy yet not obese range.
All of it.
The babies and the crying and the Legos the undying the unyielding nature of it all.
The laughter too.
Cackles to the sun, worshippers all three, faces upturned, irreverent priest and priestesses waiting for the moment to strike the gong, let loose the fury of sound.
Quiet too, though.
Simple songs sung in lilting lifting voices waiting for affirmation, whispered tones of yes, I see you I know you I hear.
You are wonderful.
I am wondering, wondrous.
The fan whirs, baby sighs nearby, husband snoring, white cracked screen no doubt sucking something from me as I tap out myself on tiny keys, into the night.