The middle of the clouds opens and the sun hangs low. Two trees that have dropped all their leaves stand as black lines, and on the hill between them two benches sit empty. The sky spreads from orange into ocher, then turns red again near the horizon.
Standing under light like this, only the left side of the face grows warm. The back of the neck is still cool, but a thin layer of warmth rests over the cheekbone. The shoulders drop a little, and the path the breath comes in through widens by about half a hand's width.
What rises in the mind while taking in the winter sun is the feeling of hurry coming to an end. The sense that something must be finished before the sun goes down loses its force for a while.
By a window or at the end of an alley, let us just stand for about five minutes wherever the light reaches. How about opening the back of the hand and turning it toward the light, then counting the order in which it warms. The back of the hand, the wrist, the inside of the forearm.
The same five minutes also opens up in front of the evening dishes. While the hot water touches the bowls, it would be fine to notice how much the two feet press into the floor. Just take stock of which foot, left or right, presses down more, and where the pressure moves between the heel and the ball of the foot. By the time the sound of the water stops, the toes may have spread a little.
The benches are empty, and the sun still hangs there.
