The morning comes slowly, with silver limning the hawthorn and lilac branches in the yard. Night's shadows hang on, and the sun never quite shows itself before the rain begins.
I welcome this dark, wet start. My thoughts, bright as the last of the marigolds, seem all the clearer for it. The day is full of lists that must be finished. I work, piece by piece, without pause. No leaping ahead to the next task; no what if I can't, what if they don't, what if it never.
Here is the secret the scarlet leaves whisper as they drop from the trees: there is this one moment. Only this.