In most cities where people “live” the sun falls
wearily behind the horizon at the close of each day,
unnoticed, and rises again on sleepers, or, at best,
blurry eyed mourners of a wasted yesterday.
I sat on top of a primer gray articulated bus
watching the sun set in blackrock city. I did my usual
private mental salute to him as he fell, and expected
the usual attendant loneliness, being the last to
remember what everyone else in my world had forgotten,
but to my lasting gratitude I heard a sound instead.
A voice was raised up. A scream of salute making my
quiet obeisance seem feeble, and I was moved to stand.
I heard approaching a storm of voices. Hundreds,
thousands of voices, and drums and dancing and furious
life, and my voice was lost in a chorus of voices. A
collective shout of religious proportion went up to
bid the sun king farewell, and it was the exception
who did not notice.