Sunday Coming On

Just before the storm broke Duncan and I were standing outside. The sun had not yet risen and the sky was at that inbetween place, wanting to be light because that's what it was supposed to do, but still dark because it had filled with low clouds that hadn't yet said what they wanted to say. While Duncan searched out his bathroom spot, his feet crunching on the stiff, frosted grass, I pulled my coat around me, bounced on my knees and watched the waiting world decide what it wanted to do. There was no noise except the wind blowing over Bowles, rattling the bits of twig, once-leaves and the occasional fast-food wrapper which had collected in the rain gutters. Then even the wind stopped and the world caught it's breath. Duncan squatted in the silence while I held my ear against the morning and listened the way a person pushes their palm against a pregnant belly and waits to feel a kick or a shove. The silence was deep, underwatery. And then I felt the air churn, a burp really, as it stirred to life, little more than sound followed by a fluttery movement in the trees and then the singing of my chimes, first the small silver ones, then the ceramic ones, and finally the long, wide bamboo ones with their hollow boat sound. I felt the first flakes before I saw them, like cold air popping on my cheeks, near my nose, in my eyelashes. And then I could see them, like dust motes, not falling so much as drifting, into the street. Duncan's collar jingled and I looked to see he'd finished his business and was waiting for me to take him inside and back to bed, which is exactly what I did. There will be plenty of time later to watch the world. Now is the time for sleeping and cuddling.