At five-something this morning somebody chirps diligently outside. I pull the blinds to get acquainted but she startles and leaves. I do not regret seeing the rosy sky behind the black trees before the light gets pale and yellow.
The wind rearranges the the shadows of the shingle oak on the windows molding and a spider builds a web on the other side of the glass. A tea cup rests on the sill in the stately cloak of gravity.
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