He walked to the top of a rise and crouched and watched the day accrue. The chary dawn, the cold illucid world.

The nights were blinding cold and casket black and the long reach of the morning had a terrible silence to it.

Remember her hair in the morning before it was pinned, black, rampant, savage with loveliness. As if she slept in perpetual storm.

Peering down into the water where the morning sun fashioned wheels of light, coronets fanwise in which lay trapped each twig, each grain of sediment, long flakes and blades of light in the dusty water sliding away like optic strobes where motes sifted and spun.