Early morning mist, that coats the season's greens and browns with silver; that thickens the sleepy sunlight with a veneer of translucence. This is the morning that awaits me as I leave for work, a visual pick me up, if you will, a crispness that moves from the slight chill in the air to the definition of line on trees and buildings as if caused by a charcoal pencil that cuts across the milky light.

On mornings like this I look along the metro tracks and see the to and fro of time and purpose; the appearance of the modern world from a natural calm, and the impulse to get on and ride to the end of the line. Today is a day for lyricism (as maybe my elongated sentences have shown), a day to wonder on the playfulness of light and air, and note the wistfulness of the trees for days of youth and vigour. Indeed today I witnessed the second youth of the natural world - it's last exhilarating fling before the onset of hibernation around the corner.

Along the streets leaves flutter, discarded from trees, yet set on their own adventures along pathways only looked upon, and into crannies mentioned only in rumours. In this light their browns are dappled with orchards and shadows of a metallic blue; they dance in tufts of wind, and huddle excitedly to discuss the new sights they witness on their journey. The sun's thin yellow waltzes over the river, picking out tide and drift, glinting with a thousand winks. The river knows it's path, but delights in its secrets, mischievous and serene.

The haze gives the horizon an ethereal feel, making ship yards and factories burst with the glow of faerie realms and the promise of new quests. Across the sky streaks of cloud overlap with the pathways of aircraft speculating a tick-tac-toe of the skies. Around me streets and allies begin to wake, as the sunlight scurries then creeps along the terraces, playing hide and seek with the shadows.

The air is full of the exhale, of the pause of divestment, ready for the slow drawing in of the day's events and the nourishment they may bring.