Damn Daylight Savings Time. I'm going to have to get a desk lamp. And all my electrical plugs are full.
It's just around the corner (again), the first Sunday in November. Except in Arizona, those rouge rebels. Always found the concept of DST odd at best. Men so in fear of their own mortality or small penes they, indeed, found a way to control time. Scary, soylent green, “the man” stuff. What if "they" decide we need more days a week, Beatles style, and add an eighth? What is one refused to participate, like those folks who simply don’t pay their taxes?
Is it for the farmers and the trick-or treaters? I rebel against the finger of time telling me when to awake, to rise, to shine. I’ll shine when I’m damn good and ready mister.
The morning sky had already changed from a searing, so deep Tiffany blue it seemed you could scoop some out with a spoon to a soupy gray shade when I roll out of the sheets at 7ish. When I worked in an office proper I had to wake earlier (my commute now simply a walk down the stairs, no bra required) and sometimes in absolute pitch black. The before-the-early-news-news-shows on telly the only bright breaking through. Like driving to the airport in the dark, showering and dressing under cover of darkness makes you feel like you're up to no good.
But watching the sunrise over the course of my formerly long drive into Boulder was often times majestic, especially in the dead of winter when white reflects back in blue in silver. It even sparkles.
There was that.