Light of a Raven

The only light came from either side of the tunnel. The stairway shone with golden light of the late afternoon, and a silver gleam glittered off the railing. A single crow feather rested on the floor of the tunnel, dirty and frayed from muddy footsteps. I knew I should  be headed toward home soon. Within the hour it would become dark and trains didn't run past a certain time. Twelve minutes from now.

I sat down. I had traveled nearly an hour to sit on the floor of a subway tunnel. Some would call that insanity. Maybe a year ago, I would have called it insanity. Now, it just feels clouded with sadness. Saddness, but hope. A really unstable, dirty and odd sort of hope, trains roaring loudly over it, causing every sound to feel one second away from a cave in.

Exactly a year ago, three hundred and sixty five changes ago, I walked through here with the only purpose of reaching the other side. Each dawn, I would sluggishly pull myself through, dragging my feet, still feeling the dreams of last night tugging my ankles. I had to keep bending down and pushing them away, so I wouldn't fall asleep then and there. My thoughts were on the stairway in front of me, and I managed. Every dusk I would be homebound. I would race through to catch my train, stumbling under the weight of my own bag, papers fluttering to the ground as I halfheartedly checked the number seconds I needed to reach the top of the stairs on time. But never once did I count the seconds that I had. It didn't matter. If I missed my train, I missed it. I always had the next train.
When I reached the top too late for the train, I used to wait on top of the stairs, lie out and spread my arms out wide, until the entire sky was in my arms. My fingertips brushed the horizon, and I would wait patiently for the prettiest clouds to rest on my palms. I would look at the birds flying, and wonder where they went when the sun went down, as they had no home, just the next tree to fly to, where each night they would burrow their heads under their wings.

It's not quite like that now.

Three hundred and sixty five days later.
And I know there are nine minutes left before the train.

I stand up, pick up my tattered school bag, and step climb the stairs to the platform. The train roared into the station, and frightened a flock of birds from their sleep. They scattered from the branches of an old oak, and flew away from me into the darkening sky, until they were nothing but ink droplets into a sky of fading pastals.