In last of night, Annie rose finding him in rest at table, open page, nothing written, a stillness to his being. He heard her steps, felt her presence, acknowledged, but kept focused in the still.
“What are you waiting on?” Annie asked.
“The sun,” James spoke plain.
Beyond frame and pane of open window view shone gloam of preceding dawn, low red of sky and yolk of yellow light made orange where blended one with other. She gazed on the gloam, the beginning light, foretelling of rise and day.
It was in the gloam when night’s were always coldest and she knew, over earth beyond, frost cast heavy on the world. It was the cold that gave the shiver, the waking and warming of body within, like light beneath horizon’s black.
Shiver passed, and then a warmth, resonance and reciprocity aligned with heavens’ way.
From sky, eyes moved and returned to James, his own way of morning rite. There was ritual and religiousness in his way: stillness and waiting; lit candle as sign and offering for kindling of thought, soft flame illuminating close and leaving darkness without shadow in depths beyond mind and flame’s illumination.
Writing, he waited for the words. He learned, the greatest stories, he did not make, but received, and there was a window when all would write—if one was ready—and so he waited in the darkness and gloam, the changing and preparing of spirit and sky, when stories and words would show.
Annie learned the way and would not believe, if she had not held witness to its way; and in the changing of sky, focus of mind, world seemed to center into story wanting written.
Absurd, but true, as she had lived and known and seen.
Sun rose nearer. Sky changed. Cool of the deep tones rising to warmer, greater display, and she sat beside him in the light of kindled mind, low-wick light becoming same in cast and way of hinted dawn below horizon; resting beside, becoming on and part with story too; legs crossed and focused on moment of the movement; guarding of warmth, faint and fine, as horizon to sun and waiting show of splendor.
Hearts and breaths changing, each knowing moment of movement near, tingle of waiting skin to be touched in the heat and grace of light, minds and spirit same, in ritual of writing.
Then moment of movement, action and seize: story, words, and wonder wanting lived and made and shown; written in dawn-breaking.