Morning leftovers.

Spring, I can feel you; you are so close. Days like today, with the promise of sixty-degree weather, I can only cross my fingers, roll my jeans up, skip the socks, and hop on my bike. I can make plans to play tennis right after work, maybe some frisbee. I can spend only a few more weeks living like it's winter, so cut us a break, ok? I love to sew, to watch TV on my computer, to crochet into the late hours, but I so miss sitting in grass with a good book, wandering with no layers to slow me down, taking my time on bike rides.

Last night I left the east-facing shades open so my morning could start as soon as the sun's, as soon as my eyes opened. Best way to start the day.

What is, before the sun.

Sometimes I wish the early morning dark could last all day. The earliest parts of the day are always my favorite. There's such an intimacy to it, and the luxury of waking slowly. Of watching the world wake with you, feeling it rise and stretch and greet you with its muted colors turned richest hues. In the city, early morning breeds a silence matched only by the first snowfall, the first warm weekend days. It is a silence dense with possibility, with novels I will write and miles I will run. There is not much else -- an empty notebook, a fresh cup of coffee, a pen newly uncapped -- that encourages me quite the same.

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