“I only want the morning light,”
she thinks, groggily, in transitional slumber
she slowly creaks down the hard-wood stairs, the handrail cold and smooth to her touch
“I only want the morning light”
she repeats,
the world, from her living room window, a covered blanket of grey
This morning, no tropical birds fly through emerald green rainforests
no turquoise waters splash off Caribbean pink boats
there are no clamoring brass bands, bustling cafés, screeching factory lines
to be heard of
no metro buses clanking, no engine sounds roaring through single pane windows
only grey, silent sheets of ice
The birds are still sleeping
the air hangs full
cold air seeps in slowly under the side door
sitting down in her worn plaid chair, she pulls a soft wool blanket up over her lap
hugging a steaming mug of tea to her chest
“I can’t do bright light,”
she says, sober and alone, mind her brown calico cat, perched on the olive loveseat by the window
a black crow faintly caws in the distance,
the sky, a lighter shade of grey
she turns on her living room light, and quickly turns away
savannah says. 