Only a beige slat of sun above the horizon, like a shade pulled not quite down. Otherwise, clouds.
Sea rippled here and there. Birds reluctant to fly.
The mind wants a shaft of sun to stir the grey porridge of clouds, an osprey to stitch sea to sky with its barred wings, some dramatic music: a symphony, perhaps a Chinese gong.
in dried grasses—as if this quiet day with its tentative light weren’t enough,