Only a beige slat of sun above the horizon, like a shade pulled not quite down. Otherwise, clouds. Sea rippled here and there. Birds reluctant to fly. The mind wants a shaft of sun to stir the grey porridge of clouds, an osprey to stitch the sea to sky with its barred wings, some dramatic music: a symphony, perhaps a Chinese gong.
But the mind always wants more than it has — one more bright day of sun, one more clear night in bed with the moon; one more hour to get the words right; one more chance for the heart in hiding to emerge from its thicket in dried grasses — as if this quiet day with its tentative light weren’t enough, as if joy weren’t strewn all around.