everything, it seems, begs to be heard and expects to be witnessed righteously at the first light of the day. the rutting cat, the rasping of branches still not fully greened, the sighs of neighbors dreaming late, the groaning weight of my errors. and i suspect because of my witness, despite being hemmed in by the rusty iron fence, amid the jostling throng of rules and expectations this society metes me out, i am rewarded with this shaft of illumination that somehow transubstantiates all my sinning, all my failings to this singular sweet fortifying vision, all for me. as i get up to move on, to get back home, i see the sharply tilting light of the rising sun burning the bulbous park lights. they look like fighting saints with their haloes aflame.