They claim the sun rose this morning but I didn’t see it, so I do not believe.  I stood there beneath gray cotton candy clouds, moving fast, studying the horizon, but the orb that never fails to emerge hot from the wet horizon did not appear. Science and my phone app says the sun rose 10 minute ago, but why should I believe?

A day has passed and I write this piece in the dark because I like to write by laptop light. (Yes, go ahead, sing that song, you know the one.)  I like watching the night sky change clothes.  On clear nights the sky turns black to daylight in un-nameable shades.  I arose this morning when the sky was still black, not the deep space black of the void, but the black of a world filled with light filtered through clouds. The courtyard lights bathe the world in a pale orange glow. I chose not to engage the beach this morning because heavy clouds will keep me from seeing the orb. I will have to have faith that the sun did rise though I did not see it.

And now, the courtyard lights extinguish themselves one by one, but the sky in the west remains gray.  The cat lady wins the Oscar for best Cat Lady actress once again, ostentatiously farewelling her cat, chin up, wide smile, floating down the balcony to her car, getting ready to face another day.  I suppose that means the sun rose, but I didn’t see it.

A school bus pulls out of the lot next door, its roof strobe flashing brightly in the murk telling me it’s carrying another load of angels and demons. I suppose that means the sun rose, but I’m not sure I believe it.

Faith asks a lot of me. It walks hand in hand with science and superstition. My neighbors make their way down to the parking lot, hands filled with garbage bags and pizza boxes, remains of their week.  I know what I see, or so I believe.