Still Season #1 — When the Sun Oversleeps

 

When the Sun Oversleeps

A quiet vignette for early September

I’ve been noticing these moments.

Cataloging them, really — little shifts in air, light, mood.
But I haven’t been writing them down. Not yet. Not until now.

Finally got the first one out — before it slips away, lost in the mist of my mind.

This is the start of Still Season — a slow, wandering series about weather and feeling and the space in between.
Not essays. Not poems, exactly. Just quiet snapshots from the year, caught before they fade.

Here’s the first.

When I wake, I wonder if the sun has overslept

The seasons change. So do we.
Still Season is a yearlong collection of quiet hours —
the hush of snowfall, the weight of humidity, the first golden leaf.
Mist, wind, thaw, bloom. Each entry catches the moment between what was and what’s next.
These are vignettes of weather and mood, stillness and shift.
Noticing the sky. Listening to the air.
One breath at a time.

One season at a time.

When I wake, I wonder if the sun has overslept,
tucked away behind the clouds.

The world outside is hushed, pale.
Painted with ghost-white ink.

Mist drapes itself over rooftops and trees,
swallowing everything it touches.
Formed when the night cooled the ground
to the dew point —
the air unable to hold its breath.

I watch, transfixed,
while the morning plays a quiet game of hide-and-seek.

Not fog, not quite —
more like a whisper with weight.

A bird balances on the basketball hoop.
Petunias unfurl from the hanging basket.
A hibiscus opens, orange and bold,
mimicking last night’s sunset.
Roses bloom, blood red and stubborn.
The grass still holds its summer green.

The driveway is wet with silence.
A streetlamp, still on, flickers once, then gives in to day.
The blanket pulls back inch by inch —
a slow reveal of rooftops, fences, lives.

The sepia morning deepens to color.
A picture-perfect moment —
developing like a photograph
in nature’s darkroom.



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