Morning

He loved the mornings; sunlight creeping over the damp grass, shadows forming out of the darkness. Dew drops shining, turning green into whiteness, turning spider webs into jewels the masters only attempted to copy. Mornings when his breath coalesced in front of his face, when his lips tingled, his ears, his nose. Mornings when he felt like he was alone in the silence, when he could think; of the days past, or the days to come. Mornings that were his; alone, silent, still.

He loved the mornings.