Too late for sleep but too early for ambition
I slip outside to talk with the night

The cool air becomes a length of mauve silk as it is drawn across my skin by a sigh of wind.
The warmth of bed flutters from my body like a flock of birds from a gunshot and I shiver,
but wakefulness will not come

The landscape is dressed in gentle shades of sleep
Dark
but a soft darkness that gazes at me with tired eyes,
and seems to almost welcome my company in this lonely period when a cold world pines for the first grey glow of dawn

I shiver again, and wonder how the dawn ever managed to get so far away.


((Also for my writing class. The topic was "Weather"))

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