Friday, October 10, 2025, 26 .3*, 87% RH, 0600
Lined up, looking down the hall, the three ask me to stop typing, give them a second helping of frosty morn, open the door. If not for red leaves the view would be abstract tangled angles and lines with orange rising behind. Light, not shaped like cranes, patterns the stream. Does frost muffle their voices? No birds seen. No birds heard. Not even traffic sings this morning.
There’s a time to be quiet, a time to sing.
Photo: LJ Austin
