Where the day generally starts out with streaks of color in the eastern sky, today the rain obscures sight of horizon providing only slight evidence of lake and except for its low and constant growl and my memory of its existence, there would be no lake there today. 


The view through the window seems not toward that fire beyond the earth but of trees barely noticed during sunrises, now prominent in their close setting and with grey blue background.  The glass is not spared the watermarks of rain and even their light sounds are heard over the rumble as all is lighting up in a lighter and brighter grey.


Now, only the fireplace can squeeze out the cold and misery of the coming day.  I cannot see or feel you today, Shorewood, light and sun, not in my consciousness. 


I shall be restricted to my anticipated mindfully small private space, awaiting the crackling of the fire and the burning of red, yellow and orange gases seen wiggle their way up and into the chimney above the burning and smoking wood emitting its charismatic odor.  In the old days, a retired old man would also be smoking a pipe in this scene.


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