That first, faint glimmer has already come, and has drawn to it a whole aura of misty-edged, faded colors. The valley is still a twilit, mysterious land of silver-white sleep, but the sky has been transformed into a huge blue dome, slipping subtly out of its grey-cloud nightcap just above that western horizon of distant, rolling mountains.
I've decided that tea makes a nice accompaniment to a quiet morning. The flavors seem to melt into some kind of background music, blending with the view from the window. Mint dances with dewy, frosted hillsides, cinnamon is in the fir trees that are silhouettes against the orange peel sunrise, and vanilla is seasoning the mist and sky with just the palest thoughts of dawn. The steam curling away from my cup is that grey-blue plume of smoke rising from the chimney.
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