Take away

Take away. Take away. Take away.

As the day takes away, it goes from morning fog to thick marine layer to bright burn off. 

From chirping bird cacophony to mid-day seagull cackle.

The mud from early sprinkler spray gives way to a summer-cooked earth.

From dewy to dry.

A stillness gives way to a slight breeze then a wind.

From branches nodding listlessly to trunks bending in surrender . . . then sometimes that taken away to an evening calm. 

And people are taken away. 

An ambulance carts off the body from a motorcycle wipeout.

An airplane shaped like a cross takes away 120 at a time – subtracting them from the city.

A freeway bleeds them out toward Vegas.

The humming tires on the road lessen.

A cotton ball takes away make-up from the face of a serious woman just before she takes away consciousness from her weighty day-to-day story. 

And what – if anything – gets added back in the dark of night – in dreams?

What becomes of a repeated pattern when the algorithm changes slightly?

All but the light of stars is taken from the sky and eventually light adds back to early morning, street sweepers, and a new but similar cacophony of birds.

 And the circular dance goes on. 

What small delights of delta await the next batch of elimination?