The morning sun has moved, changing seats at the breakfast table. It's the slight shift, alteration in light, shadow, color, brightness. Offering up clues that the season is changing. A somber change. Why is that? To go from white light - pure and hot - to golden light. Softer. Slower. Less intense. Less energized. A portend of the coming season. A season of slowness. The vigor of spring has waned. I notice that summer has a shortness of breath in August. Will soon be gasping in September. Napping in October. To winter is to sleep soundly. Restoring, dreamless, sound sleep. Heavy lidded. Impossible to rouse.