January Morning.

It is a calm and warm Saturday in London and I should rest. I have no horse, there is no snow, no woods, but there are trees. I can hear birdsong from birds who sit on the leafless tree tops. Across London there is a high mist, and although I know that outside my cocoon there is noise and business, today is made for rest, just like the trees rest now. They wait for the earth’s season to bring more light, bright light before they burst into producing fresh leaves in Spring. Me, I shall rest, but only until tomorrow. I have complex promises to keep, and time will only make the keeping of my promises harder.