Larry Sunday

Larry Sunday went easy, his 3 a.m. streets bare and untroubled, opening up to quiet bike rides through the glossy halls of fresh smelling rain, glowing Christmas tree colors from the mute vigil of trafficless stoplights evenly switching like the persistent tide when they could sit idle. Larry Sunday was the king of the no account morning, when even the wolves slept in their prides, and he who asked for nothing rejoiced in exactly that.