On certain summer mornings, sunshine comes in through my office window between nine and ten. It’s a warm hand on my shoulder while I answer emails or think about the day’s upcoming work. Most times I’ve already turned in my morning run, so it’s a reminder of pounding along with the wind in my hair.
Closer to ten, the bar of sunlight moves down my arm. If the window’s open, the birds stop their second round of cascading wake-up and early-morning-snack calls, and traffic is a distant seashore hum. It makes me wonder about the quality of silence in a car-free world. My writing partner and I are reading The Stand right now for our teensy book club, and one of the things King makes a point of is all the background noise of civilisation suddenly gone. It’s enough to make one wonder about the bath of ambient sound we’re all swimming in.
By slightly past ten the sun is gone, but the sensation of a warm, giving hand remains for a while. The dogs sleep, the cavies burble softly, and the work for the day rises up to meet me like a gift.
Back to work.