Keeping Vigil

It's almost 5 a.m. and I've been up for three hours. I can't sleep. In my head I keep hearing words from our quarrel that morning. One or two windows have lights on, but the street is dark. It's Saturday morning now, so the lost sleep doesn't feel quite so tragic. One could have been up all night at a club with friends.

The moon is waxing. Draw good things here, good fortune and good energy to me and mine. In the dark, the rabbits nibble the grass. Urban rabbits, they hardly run when I surprise them mid-bite when I come around the back of the apartment building.

Except for the worries that woke me, it is a lovely time of day. No sign of dawn yet. No cars, no voices. For those that are asleep, it is the deepest part of sleep. The nights are getting cool, so most of the windows are closed. I see the wind ruffle the trees outside, but I can't hear it. In this quiet, one must be vigilant. Just being awake is a job worth doing. Thinking about things feels like action. In the quiet, you can think, even if it's only about thinking itself.

In old times people would stay up all night in chapels praying over their armor, or swords, or troops, or spouses-to-be. As if consciousness and yearning in all their power and urgency might make a potent enough mix to influence the course of events, and assure happy endings.