Morning light

“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

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