A Wednesday Morning

From the window I could see the hairlines of soft rain.  Slanted by breeze.  This morning, when it was still dark and the dogs were let out, the chill was December.  That end of the year with a kind of brightness people mostly call cheer.  

It is sunup now and I still attempt to write that which I lost last night.  I do not look at the clock but it does not leave my mind.  Only the dogs are patient.  They have long, short days for dreaming.  Perhaps, of running around with their humans.  Their tails wagging with glee.