Sat on my favorite bench in that little park after midnight. A train roared through downtown causing me to turn up my little radio. In my hand was a cup of coffee, black, poured from my thermos. This diet has caused me to forego my usual cream and sugar. It has taken some getting used to my coffee without my usual condiments – especially the bitterness.
On the horizon stretches that grand old cotton mill like some silent sentinel. Its weaving and spinning looms fallen long dormant and quiet as the work was sent overseas for cheaper labor and the workers were left to fend for themselves in unemployment lines – once the lifeblood of this little Southern town - times change.
I realize after-midnight is my witching hour – a time where my senses are heightened, my awareness's sensitive, and my sight keen. I think of the waning crescent moon that will soon be full come the end of the month and the jokes my father often tells of insane and crazy people spurred by that moon to do extraordinary things. I must be sure to prepare my wolf's bane for the moon to come.
I finally stand after drinking the last of my coffee – my body casting a long shadow in the glow of a street light. I stand erect for a moment and stretch – sore from my exertions of moving all day. It is going to be a good week, I muse. I then disappear into the night to walk home – my witching hour passed. The bed waits.