for sun today, dark on waking, dark as I prepare my last coffee of the day. Murk dirt-white as the steam in Furnas, colour of the sea off Rif, watching the snowfall from the hot tub. Murk dark as the inside of a cow, Twain’s tales from the prairie. Murk of receipts and ledgers, the bescarfed clerk’s dribbling nose. Murk of Mega-City One’s lower levels, of the dust kicked up in Lucky Luke’s Ghost Town. I hide in books and chip away at tasks. I’ll ride the boats in, battle for the beach and then stretch out in the headland grass. Surface skimmer, strip away my cares.
