Glorious Mourning

He had awaken before the sun came up as was his usual routine. He sat at the computer catching up on the news from late yesterday and into the current morning, followed by writing, watching to videos and listening to short podcasts.

Shortly after that certain golden orb made itself known, Brexley retreated to the bathroom, where he showered and dressed. He often saw bathing as the official start to each day and today was no different.

“What a glorious day,” he stated as he drew back the curtain to the sliding glass door that overlook his small backyard patio.

He returned to his room and traded out the jeans he was wearing for a pair of shorts before heading back to the sliding glass door to open it. The sky was clear and the air, warm and not the slightest hint of a breeze.

Brexley returned to his office to retrieve his coffee cup from where he’d left it the evening before. A message flashed in the corner of his computer screen and he paused to open the link.

A new video, an hour and 20 minutes long. He walked into the kitchen, filled his cup with coffee, heated it the minute and ten seconds it took to bring the dark brown fluid back to life and then returned to his office and the computer screen.

It was a very good video, subject matter aside, which was about missing and possibly murdered people, it was well produced and shed light on what had happened and where the investigation stood at present. He had long since drained his cup and decided he’s like to have a second cup, something that was not part of his usual routine.

That’s when he saw all the papers scattered across the hard wood floor from the kitchen table. He’d not realized that the wind had picked up and was causing havoc with the piles of bills and other mail that had been resting on the table.

Brexley quickly gathered everything up, placed them on the table and added a handheld calculator a top to keep them in place. He walked over to the glass door and stepped outside briefly.

The wind was approaching gale-force as it had snapped off a few of the smaller branches from the 20-year-old Aspen tree in the corner of his yard, and deposited them in the neatly groomed grass below. Further, the wind was now hot, very dry and unforgiving when breathed in; much like the Santa Ana winds he’d come to know and so well known in southern California.

But this was northern Nevada.

High shapeless, clouds now filled the once powder blue skies of that morning. Amid their flat, grayness were the unmistakable tracings of aircraft trails; high ones that came out thinly or sometimes invisibly, but which widened into fat, rolling cloud-like lines, thus adding to the over-all gray.

Brexley sighed and stepping back inside, closed and barred the door, then slid the heavy drape across the glass blocking out the remaining light. He sat down at his dinner table in the darkened room and mourned the glorious day that had been, forgetting about that second cup of coffee.

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