I’m feeling mammalian this morning: very nearly furry.

As I woke, I was just a little animal whose warm weight was even this moment leaving a warm imprint in the nest of my bed.  I felt both front paws tucked together under my chin.  I felt the imprint—in the curl of my body—of the fetus I once was.

And I feel the turn of the season.  Summer has nearly broken; first light comes later now.  It’s the first morning that the heat of my imprint before I first move, feels luxurious.

I stretch; my shoulders crackle.

I’ve always loved basking in sunshine behind closed eyelids:   especially in bed first thing in the morning, when I haven’t yet opened my eyes to the day.

Today, cloud cover sometimes half-hides the light.  That which escapes the clouds must pass through leaves moving in the occasional breeze. Finally, it must run the gauntlet of my half-opened blinds.

The light which has made it through all this gently teases me, playing now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t, brushing dapples across my closed eyes.

At first I’m absorbed in the question of whether it would work to add a layer of gold where the light will be playing on the surface of the water (I’m thinking out a new painting).  I’m only half-aware of the perfection of this light.  So it tickles me a little more insistently, until I notice and say ‘oh!’