I love the orange wash
of sky at dawn these bitterly cold mornings. It is a gauze stretched tight along the horizon. My view is from the picture window at the front of our house, which faces south; yet with the sun so low in the winter sky, I can easily see the sunrise from my computer desk.
A line of trees brushes the orange band of morning sky, and - as often - a certain heaviness of the air thickens everything.
This cinnamon-colored house is my protection and my home as we hurtle through the universe, and it soaks up the little bit of warmth the morning sun brings us. It has been bitterly cold these last few days. Yet we have electrical power to keep our furnaces operating, which is not the case today across some stretches of the country.
I look at the sun and wonder of the birds and the feral cats and the little wild mice: how do they manage to stay warm in this season? I would be ill-equipped to survive these nights out-of-doors.
Has evolution pushed me to a kind of dead-end?