Day Forty-Seven: Verbal
Yesterday was not my favourite day. Is an understatement. And really, there's nothing to say about it now, just that it was heavy with things I don't want to carry anymore, and who doesn't have those days now and then? This morning though I awoke, in spite of myself, more or less content and already I have seen the first proper sunrise from my new home. While yesterday was an uneventful sort of daybreak—a shady exchange of dark grey fabric for lighter ones, fitting for a Remembrance Day, for the wail of bagpipes and reverence—today cracked open like an egg. Amazing what a little colour will do. Pink and yellow streaks over a shiver of orange. We’ve been up for hours now, the sun and I, and it’s been a pleasant start thus far, both of us with our best feet forward. Meanwhile, the ocean breathes softly and rolls back against a blanket of fog, now encroaching on a barge, now swallowing the far shore; my coffee brews, the wood stove crackles, and a lone seagull carries on a verbal exchange with a loon, it’s hollow warble drifting through stretches of nothing. Tabula rasa.
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