Insomnia

I drift awake and see a soft light at the window.  It could be the rising sun, but this late in the year, it is more likely to be the neighbor's motion detector, filtered by the trees.

The clock says 5:30, too early for sunrise.  A soft breeze blows the shadows around the porch.  The garden beckons me, whispering that the darkness grows longer with each passing day.

If it were daylight, I could sprinkle rainwater on what remains of the hostas.  I could rake the leaves from the pavement to the compost pile.  But I spend the daylight hours at my desk, fiddling with a computer, writing with a pencil.  By the time I drive home, it is dark.

I wait for the sun.  The hollow sound of the highway is interrupted by the rattle of the refrigerator.  The furnace comes on in a soft hush.  And throughout the house, there is a silent sound of doors closing.