And just as last night was
clear, this morning lacked its usual mist.
At sunrise, I opened my eyes to a ridge swathed in muted pink, a color
my mother would have called “dusty rose”.
I watched as the rosy glow morphed to gold, and little bits of windows
and sidings popped out in brilliant reflection.
How quickly the light changes, how infrequently are these colors
apparent, and how lucky I am to catch them.
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