The color of the gloves a kind friend loaned me, because I had the longer walk home one freezing night.
Early in the night my thoughts are scattered, and a few hours drift past with little work done. Only when it's the early morning hours do my thoughts hurry back from the corners of my mind and converge on the topic at hand. Though my head's swimmy with lack of sleep the next morning, I'm content.
In the late afternoon, a snowy gray tree catches the sun in its uppermost branches.
A mouse darts along the side of a short brick office building. Its downy gray body is pale, even against the snow, and it seems to be moving in a series of small, quick leaps. One of my thoughts, when it finally disappears into a chink in the outer wall, is that it'll probably pop up in someone's office to loud exclamations and possibly screams. Another thought is of how vulnerable it was out in the open, even though the only creatures who seemed to have been tracking its progress were a few amused pedestrians.
Dawn light and pink bath curtains conspire to turn my skin rosy as I slowly wake up in the shower.
I don't usually think of a certain room as cozy, but on this day the heating stays on, the lights are dimmed, and though a scholarly presentation is unfolding, the people in the small friendly audience are eating their way through a stack of chocolate chip pancakes and occasionally batting around some balloons brought in for two people celebrating birthdays.
The delightful prospect of a book of poems traveling my way by mail.