The world is white this morning: the sky, the trees, the ground. The pair of crows in the dying maple are cinder stark. The contrast is so abrupt, I almost want to cry. This is what waking up tired feels like now: I am overcome by everything. By the sooty feathers of crows as they lift, circle, fly of cawing. By the way everything starts up again each morning. The washing machine is on the spin cycle. The woodstove is hot with embers. Sprout is fussing in his crib, just frequently enough to let me know he is still awake, between longer stretches of quiet where I forget for a moment where I am, who I am, and feel the way tiredness lifts me outside myself again and then yanks me back, as though today my arms and legs are really the finely wrought pieces of a elaborate marionette doll with someone unskilled and abrupt pulling at the strings.
This is the way the day begins. This is the first day I have to myself in the cycle of the week. The first three are crowded now with work and meeting deadlines, and I always feel a little in shambles by Thursday, here, but not entirely, somehow trailing myself.