Lonely Porch

I sat on the front porch in that creaking hammock-chair. It swings. The ropes protest. The antique tea cup and saucer - the gold and white one, with the saucer that looks like lace - rattles and chatters. A sweet stickiness is left in my mouth from the tea; the kind of aftertaste that makes you want more of whatever gave it to you in the first place. I sighed, adding to the persistant sound-sequence that was already dominating the porch: creak rattle rattle creak rattle rattle creak...
I looked up. I watched the ropes, metal and wood interacting above me as I swung. Creak rattle rattle creak. The sound of the distressed china should have put me on edge. There should have been an instinct to protect the fragile pair in my lap. But the ropes around me molded to my shape oh so perfectly...
I looked ahead, at the dry creek bed. It looked white-silver by the light of the dying sun. By the late afternoon, the sun is always fed up with the individual colors who refuse to swear by night or day - he told me so, once upon a time. As he bleeds to death each night, the sun demands that they all declare their loyalty to him or to his sister, the moon. Greens, reds, warm browns take up the golden sheild. White, blue, grey-browns ralley around a silver sheen.
Creak rattle rattle creak rattle rattle creak...
It is decision-making time.
I rise from the hammock-chair, silencing the creaking and the rattling instantly. The only sound is my bare-feet on the porch-wood. I notice that my feet, too, have taken a side - gold, in honor of the sun who gives them color in the first place. One last creak and a slam! as the doors opens and closes behind me. I pause.
Silence is silver-golden on the lonely porch.