Sunrise

It's morning, and the sun not up yet. Most of the sky is the shade of a spectacular bruise: shadows ranging from blue-grey to near-black. Near the horizon the clouds must break, because the clouds there are marked in the sun's reflected glory, gilded red and gold and orange and pink - even a hint of a brush of purple at the edges, a paler shade. The air is chill, breath forming clouds on it, but the horizon is all fire, warming the eyes even as the body shivers.

Fog Tunnel

It's dusk, the light is blue and low, almost gone, and all around is fog. Low-lying, kissing the earth, the road, the cars rushing along it. Shadowed by the tall trees, brushed with the midnight-blue shadows the sky gifts it, settled to the sides. Ahead, where the headlights touch, it is a wisp of white-grey. The blue fog is like a tunnel, enveloping the traffic, channeling it along a path all its own - apart from the world. If you pulled to the side of the road, would you even recognize what was there? Or would it be as fog-touched and distant as it seems from the middle of the road, rushing past?

It's Night....

It's night, and the sky is dark. The house is warm, but not hot - comfortable enough. Outside, the wind is whistling to itself with the laughter of something that knows more of the world than I do. Beneath its wandering, the car windows have frosted up. I am sure by now there are whorls and patterns, the ones that look so lovely in the fresh-formed frost, and fade so quickly with the sun (or the ice-scraper). The wind is singing to itself down the long streets, while the frost curls in to rest for as long as it's allowed. It's winter. Winter. It's winter.