I hear night set in while I count out sticky cash. Traffic noise has stopped and the ice machine hums.

I click off the neon OPEN sign and realize that I have forgotten the surprise of sunrise -- a small drop of light along the horizon ahead of each day -- a point of fire running in streaks of amber and gold as dawn comes skipping across peaks and hollows.

My shades are closed and my back is turned against dawn, but I know what the moon does and where the constellations hide -- I see them through my windshield or while walking up the path back home from the bar.

Hours later I hear a truck pass in the distance -- a driver at the wheel thinking about coffee, melted butter on toast. The early-bird news talks about things I won't know for hours.

At home on a gaudy black and chrome barstool pulled beside polished pine and stone, I find my place in the book. Soon the night rouses to trade places with another day.