Winter mornings I walk outside before the world starts up again. An occasional car, the early bus with one person on it. Sometimes the wind hasn’t even started and the heat from the chimneys of all the sleepers rises up above the houses. Snow and ice crack under my boots. My lungs fill with the cold air of stars. Sometimes there’s an owl. In today’s story, there’s a moon and also a lot wrong with the world, but here before the news, you can’t tell. Nothing I can do about the steadfast sun, right on schedule. But I get a feeling I can still borrow that predictable plot some time.