Wake in the belly of a cloud, all mist and smoke, the spiderwebs on your streetlights picked out in silver thread. It’s harvest time, the spiders plump and black.
The fog pulls back just enough for the sun to warm you on your run, your muscles loose and liquid. And then, at night, it descends again, quieting the hum of everything. Just you and your friend’s dog, whisper-soft as you pad down the street, across the grass in your pajamas.
You happen upon your neighbor, a kindred spirit in her pajamas, too. Together you stand in the feeble glow of street lamps, make plans for an adventure. The darkness is less dark, because it is shared.