Daytime

Blue spaces open, luminous, behind the black branches and leaves. Through the skylights, I can see the the trees shrug and shiver in the wind: then they settle again. Behind them the blue-gray increases in brightness, and I consider the paradox, that as the light increases the color fades. It's not really a blue sky, it's  gray one, even dark gray one. Those earliest pools of light are intensely blue when they first appear. Now there are dark gray layers of cloud hurrying across a lighter gray field: it's all still blue-tinged, I suppose, but the color barely registers. Dawn settles into place. Shakes its coat, pats its pockets, smooths its hair. Daytime.

A couple deep breaths, a few business-like coughs. I sputter into life. Dig the sleep out of my eyes. Sketch out the day ahead: much to do, much to do. Finish the week's soup, pack up food for the day, shower and launch.

But I take the time to close my eyes, and slow down. What was it I said? "Close your eyes and turn toward the sun." Listen to the pipers of tinnitus. Let things fall away. There's time.