The morning is cold.
Sunlight struggles through the leaves that
surround the house where someone is sleeping. The doors of the house are open,
the sleeper’s bed is near the door but the sleeper is deep in dreams and deep
in the warmth of the covers.
The house is blue.
The sky is blue too, not the same because
the blue of the van is fading slowly with time, the blue of the sky is fading
as the autumn takes grip.
Next to the house stands an oak tree.
The oak tree is old -not as ancient as the
sky, which has been here forever - but it is older than the house. It was here
before the house was imagined.
Acorns fall from the tree.
One of the acorns lands on the roof of the
house; the roof of the house is tin.
The noise almost wakes the sleeper and he
turns.
His breath condenses as it rises into the
morning air.
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