the air was perfect. it was still, or practically still rather, and breath hung, suspended in time like a personal fog. it was the kind of crisp morn where the air nipped at cheeks with icy fingers and stung at eyes like tiny pinpricks. but it was welcomed after a summer laden with heavy winds. it was welcomed, but more importantly, it was relished. this was the kind of morning which does not often come.

the colours, too, were perfect. it was the time when some of the trees had begun to shed and melt. sunset tinted leaves lined the narrow walkway, clung precariously to the still green blades of grass. the usual scrip-scrop, scrrip-scrrop of soles along cement was augmented by the gentle rustle of leaves, a quiet noise like the turning of the pages of a long-forgotten book.

the sky was not perfect. it filtered down in broken streams through obese grey clouds. all hints of sunrise, cool this morning, ethereal and blue, were lost to the mackarel sky which remained subtly sublime.

walking was easy, bundled in a sweater, scarf and winter jacket. hands jammed into pockets, fingers wrapped around keys, one foot was placed in front of the other. they were cautious steps at first, wary of frost covered pathways, the resilience of concrete hard against early morning heels. fleet feet, however, were not to be defeated. they flew faster down familiar paths.

down the hill, past the chip-post fence before pausing ever so briefly to see the rockwell painting lingering before sleep bleary eyes. it is constant, this scene. continuing on, then, scrip-scrop, scrrip-scrrop through the remains of yellow and brown leaves.

the same buildings are viewed in passing on this, the daily path. first, the post modern wonder: black windows, which catch relfections; grey concrete and red brick; blue bent steel beams. next, the modern horror: placcid and stoic, the simple concrete walls cast gloomy shadows on the frigid ground. finally, the classical masterpiece: seemingly endless marble steps; slender ionic columns; engraved friezes.

there is a small tree-lined stretch. six pines, two oaks, one elm. the maple stands across the knoll. the willow is but a simple stump, a casualty of a recent storm. slowly, the clouds part. slowly, the light begins to filter through.

eos' fingers slowly touch each stark pine needle, gracing them with an inner light. each pine needle is transfixed, the boughs look as though created of lace.

for a moment, the world hangs breathless, motionless. and in that moment, even the blindest eyes can see.

This part made me happy.

That's an amazing line. Good job, deaNna.

thanks. both of youse.

I like this.

It describes what it was like when I left the house this morning.