Occasionally, I find, there are mornings like these: when it seems best to leave all the windows open because outdoors the sky is an unbroken blue, and the sunlight folds and flashes on the shining backs of leaves that we know now can’t possibly last.
Mornings when the wind gusts and then is still again, or plays here in what was moments before an idle corner but now is all foment and frothing, all laughter like children suddenly not listening but caught up in (what?) something infinitely better.
Mornings when the sunlight hangs on the window screen and filters the kitchen in stippled shadow, when necessity is ashamed of itself but pleads its case nonetheless, and you bend your head to your work again, knowing for certain only that you will never make anything so beautiful as this.
