The Night Shift

Have you ever noticed the polluted blackness of a late spring thaw, when the water has frozen, thawed, and sealed itself again like a frightened pillbug, like a flinching, bruised eye under the last crust of ice, a blackness of muddle and menace? That is the black of the sky tonight, and the few stars that outshine the city lights drift upon it like stunted snowflakes born from a cold cloud.

I hit a certain point when trying to sleep is a futile exercise. I call it quits at 3 am, as a rule. Any later, and I'll sleep through work. So I have just gotten up again, dyed my hair, shoved three loves of sourdough bread into the oven, and next I'll put on some tea and finish pasting recipes into my recipe book with a bottle of rubber cement. I doubt I'll remember much of it later, what with insomnia's deletion of short-term memory, but that's half the fun. I am the cobbler, and these sleepless hours are my elves.