I slept "like a stone," or like that vast stone-shaped building, the planetarium.
No dreams I can remember: the dark unbroken blue on which the stars will take their places, like bright sheep grazing the sparse sky.
The night I share with others is cloudy as if it were groggy from snowing.
On the plains, the lights of Longmont waver.
I begin to re-invent my life, turning on lights, grinding some coffee beans -- French roast, dark enough to shine.
The kettle sends up its flume of steam.
The material world is always swirling away.
Six hours ago I lay down so tired I slept through an evening I'd have given to basketball and friends.
A snow as dry as confectioners' sugar has stopped.
I take my dog for a walk over the sifting fields.
To him it's not midnight.
It's dark and snow smells like the air it's fallen through.
