Awake before the child and his mother. The house silent. The disseminating moon still visible above as the dawn grows, passing slowly from the bed. The light expands into another thing, daybreak disappearing as it goes. The morning tea cools. Alone in a rare moment of peace.
No dreams remembered, just the mild grasp of waking, of returning from a great but friendly distance. The light that fills the house as natural and soft as the curved earth.
A simple day ahead, one hopes. Simple things done, simple things desired. A day, perhaps, without things.
The book was finished last night, one read before, one that will be read again. How many, how long; does the morning always wonder.
Today might only be the casual search for a new book, a thing.
The avoidance of pain, the having or the giving of it, the making of.
Always there is the making of.
.
