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?