Good Morning

Here comes my light. Filtered between buildings. It turns the black of my curtains to fire. Catching the contour of every thread, dancing off the prism of cut glass that decorates my window.

This moment is so brief, sandwiched like we are, wall to wall, story to story, in a tiny town too far North in Ontario to be counted beyond the cottage season. Come winter, the moment will disappear, the sun riding too low in the sky for the light to find its way in.

If not for the houses beside me, my horizon would include a lake. Cobalt waters against an azure sky. Large enough to churn waves like the ocean when the winds are willing. Sending whitecaps ashore to sandy beaches where driftwood collects and tidy marinas where boats dance in their wake.

It's not home, but it's close.

For now, that will do.

Natasha Head