the far lit hills

Back to work this morning. The sky in a mood with itself. Over yonder the sun clears the morning mist. The fug of the bank holiday is evaporating. In the cleft of the valley the mist coories-in with the breathing of the forest leaves. A final brief wet passion on the valley floor. Then, like sound waves escaping the morning bell, it shimmers to clarity. All suddenly lit and clear in those far hills.
So, I sigh. And there is my breath on the staffroom window. I turn away. Going, gone from the glass, my breath evaporates. Ahead lies this day. Formless and waiting in the corridor.