The window's open a crack. I hear magpies complaining to each other. Maybe about the weather.

We phoned it in this morning. We aren't budging for a while. It's Monday. The shop is closed today, anyway.

We'll go in at noon. You can do all the painting you need to do in four hours. This feels good, lingering with creatures, even the everpresent housefly. The world around us is sodden and dead. Leaden sky.

PJ stopped in with her morning coffee around 8:30. I sat in my pajamas, munched my breakfast toast and gulped my honeyed tea and blinked at her, too punchy even to feel embarrassed about the hairy state of my long-unvacuumed living quarters. She's brought such excitement with her from the big city. It was fun to listen to all her plans for when she retires and comes here to stay. Her long-vacant house across the way is a chaos of dust, blown dirt, and rodent droppings. Too much to face first thing the first morning. It was nice to have a neighbor visit. I have not the heart to tell her yet that we will move to town next month.

Ah. A glimmer of yellow light from the east. A break in the cover. Bless me. The room suddenly blindingly bright, then fading by degrees—bright-fade-bright. A rhythm of light.