Early morning yawn
When the sky turns into a replica of your son's primary school theatre stage-- its cardboard cut out clouds speeding their way across graduated shades of lavender and blue. When you barely hear the wind like the breathe of a sleeping animal as it whispers through bare branches. When the air flutters past your window, pushing feathery snowflakes in all directions. When you are tossed between dreams and sleep, awash in a cloud of fried bacon and toast. When the air hangs with a sweetness of rain and earth, sodden leaves crushed into the soil like crumbled chocolate being folded into butter and sugar. When your eyes are half-closed and you watch yourself fumble around in the dark silence.
That is when you bury your cheek deeper into scarf-like blankets; when you know you've reached the early pre-dawn moment you hope will last longer. It is just before the clock chimes; just before the last few seconds of a star-cast blue sky melt away; just before the click and screech of gates begins; right around the time you can almost feel heels on stones accompanied by the muted sound of electronic car-key blips. It is exactly when you almost feel the clinking milk bottles being placed on steps.
That is the precise moment your eyes open and you silently bid goodnight to the last twinkling of faraway, fading stars.
