Ticking Clocks, Off Time

In a previous life as a sensitive ticking clock phobe, this house would have driven me mad. There are no less than two ticks in the room where I sleep, three in the living room, one in the kitchen, and others scattered aesthetically through out the rest of the home.

This cacophonous din became white noise as I slept: through people arriving late in the night, through dreams disjointed dreams, through the anonymity of waking without a name to attach to myself the clocks remained vigilant. Waking as the sun cracked the eastern rim of the sky lighting the dew, the horse's backs, the spark behind my eyes.

I wake and feed the animals, make coffee, the air is damp and clear as I pick the manure from their paddocks. Tomorrow, I will ride before dawn.