A New Day Gavin Moore

A New Day

Anew day wafts into the room. The damp smell springs onto my nostrils, different this day. It’s a morning meant to be spent in bed, or maybe the whole day. The sun woke up late this morning to mark off a new day. I write. The sun hits the tip of the new day and splits in two. Cascading down onto the childish plants, as they soak up the day on their petals and leaves. Days of Arid-zona deserts with boys running through the sand. Another day later, boys trip, staying in hospital beds instead. Days of windy Chicago winter as women stumble through the streets. The cold weather gets them ill and instead they spend days in bed. Days out of bed are days that end you up in bed, I say. It’s raining now, not a day for writing; it’s a day for rest. Getting up, the day dampens, taking on a pleasantly soggy feature as I head back to bed. Rain trickles off the roof of big trees while boys run through the reddish dirt, rushing to fill buckets for the day. It doesn’t rain on this vibrant arrangement of jungle often, but today was that day. People sing in padded down windows, glorifying this beautiful new day. The day glances at them, lessening the rain with its vibrant gaze. The sun blooms bright, reaching a crescendo. It is too hot to get out of bed—I guess I’ll stay under the crisp covers for today.