The sunrise after yesterday is of course, beautiful. I will try. It's the type that reminds you she is a watercolorist ready to make mess with gold and pink and blue and purple, to swish and smear, to let us figure it out. Birds absent from sight squeak, they whistle like excited elegant children, there are no dogs barking; there are no dogs fighting. At the red light it appears as if a giant confectioner drizzles the sky with layer of cherry syrup, thin-sliced tangerine, molten cream cheese, some kind of gray sweet I've not yet eaten. Cairns of azurgris cloud unafraid to topple, vertiginous as they are, I have to stretch my neck to find their base, my eyes cannot swallow them all at once. My clothes are intact. The sunrise endures. It digests yesterday's gray cramping for hours and hours, it smiles barefoot, the clouds get a little tacky and flirt with silver linings, they bloom pregnant, they jog stalwart. Under the sun-sky I with heart waltzing listen. It is so quiet I can hear it. I can stand still and see there is no flash and snarl of whiteblack fur, there are no jaws closing upon my body.