Evening arrives with a soft hum, slowly expanding to the O of a conch. It thrums and vibrates down to the toes, it whirls as it grows, circling, eddying, rising around itself in a ramhorn spiral, warning that the day is closing and giving a cochlear reminder that another rotation is nearly complete.
The last pre-Shabbat moments tumble too fast around the clock face, egged on by the high drone of whirring food processors, blaring vacuums, curling blow-dryers. The frenetic preparations crescendo, the windows shake as the air blasts with warning, until no one can ignore Shabbat’s siren song. With a sharp upturned ripple the day/the year/the moment passes, and Shabbat swirls in—plump and curvaceous but nevertheless eclipsed by the new moon.
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