It's early and I smell rain. It's darker this morning, as if the drops scrub away the suns rays when they land upon our window glass.
No one notices how this morning struggles.
Inigo sleeps soundly on a collection of chewed items that don't belong to him. He's like a dragon asleep on his hoarded treasures. Mom is involved in her morning procrastinations; sure to be unamused when the numbers finally pry open her eyes to Beetle and her treasure. The fluff of something stuck to his muzzle, stirring as he breathes.
I look out the window, the sky weeps this morning. Maybe it cries for all the troubles of the world. Maybe it cries for the joy of another day.
No one notices how this morning struggles.
No one notices how this morning cries.
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