In that still time before the sun fully achieves a working altitude the mind can wander. Drugged by the sleep and the thought of porridge or some exotic yogurt, pineapples in chilly suspense or the crackle of some ill tempered radio host, step into the kitchen. It must be morning if it's a new day. We could possibly run out of milk. There may be clouds in the sky, I should look upwards more. There's a slow building, cold wind blowing in from the Forth. Magpies are gathering and the pigeons are considering this week a good one to breed in. They flap a lot, break branches and chase each other around with little actual contact. The kettle has boiled and I count my distances around the square circle that is the shower bottom, a white glazed rock pool under a waterfall. Considering toast and then dropping the idea, buttered side up. Of course that was all just yesterday, today we return to rain.
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