Perhaps it's the coolness of the air. December frigidity gets a reprieve from its reputation: the cold is still biting, but not spiteful. It's a cold that portends warmth later. A cold that sharpens the edges of everything it touches. Not as a saw but as a nearer approach to the reality of the thing. The promise of clarity.
Or perhaps it's the clouds. Much-traveled territory made strange by the pre-dawn dark. It isn't until the road bends south that I notice a strip of clear sky beneath the thick cloud bank. The sky lightening; the clouds a deep, rich pink. Sunrise on Mars.
The day beginning in the sky. In the certainty of motion honed by custom into skill. My fingers touching on the far side of the steering wheel.
