Belltown

It's autumn now. The acorns that fall on the sidewalk are ripe enough to crack when I step on them. Trees are still green but they are beginning to hint at the coming undress with a tinge of blush in their leafy complexions. The Belltown air is beginning carry a clarity, like the cool of the first bite into a crisp apple. My heart echoes the ambivalence of the warm street tired from the hot sun, anticipating the approach of the steel gray sky.

The bus is a gallery of Belltown life. Young and old, rich and poor tensely partake in their common need for movement. The bag ladies with their found treasures of tragedy, the boys hiding inside business suits with their conference call cacophony, the dilapidated mother with peek-a-booing cub in tow, they all come and sit with reverent silence. In the Metro we ride intimately crammed feigning perfect solitude. Loneliness is the art form on display, silence the paint, fear the canvas.

Friday and Saturday night are marked with the arrival of a migratory flock of clubbers, hipsters, lady killers and gold diggers. They are met by the local army of call girls and dealers. The street comes alive with longing. All seeking the same conquest, perhaps believing they've found El Dorado. Oh, shining Belltown. The night expends it's prize the seekers slowly begin their homeward journey. As the darkest hours of night come the true beast rises from the ashes of the enticing creature that has withered. It's cries resonate through the alleyways, the business men of the night threaten, the prostitutes scream, the addict wails. From my apartment the sound muffled comes like a gurgle from the belly of the beast.

The morning always comes. The sun leaks through the blinds and and promise leaks into my soul. A "good morning" to God. Bones creak across hardwood. I wash away the unnamed terror of the darkness with a Name. The morning always comes.