Image: early morning with fog

Outside the light is slowly coming up. The world is muffled in a soft grey not-wall, the things beyond it ghost-shadows of shapes that might be known if they were wholly there. The mossy fingers of the bare tree rest splayed against the shadowy cotton of morning, and the bushes bristle warily close to the house. The world is waking, slowly. Not ready to throw the blanket off. And we, we are up before the world, waiting patiently for it to stir, to see what gifts it brings today.