a mist for falling asleep in

November picnic at the summer cottage.

A fire roaring in the fireplace, freezing fingers gripping a steaming coffee mug, the sweet taste of my mother's homemade peach pie. I can see my breath.

In the garden, everything is damp and grey under a layer of mist. The sea is the colour of steel and a gang of swans near the shore are filling their bellies before the long flight south. It's almost cold enough for snow.

The silence is almost absolute but peaceful, not oppressive. I feel my eyelids growing heavy. Time for sleep, the deep sleep of winter.