The humid morning air, so thick with moisture that light cannot find a clear path in the mist, presents a challenge to flying creatures. Insects’ wings, laden with dew, struggle to give them flight. Birds opt to sit on water-logged branches rather than attempt to swim through the air. The wind has given up its attempts to ruffle leaves on the trees. There’s no room for air to move among the water molecules filling the empty spaces of morning. Fog enshrouds this little piece of the world in a blanket of lethargy. Grey is everywhere. Gutters and downspouts gurgle with slow-moving streams of wet daylight struggling to escape, struggling to illuminate the ground beneath the grey sky. But there’s no sky, not here. Sky is up there, higher, not so close it could drown you in a breath; this grey morning air is a low ceiling of oppression, too close to be called sky.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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