Shedding's

Before dawn, I press my palm on the windowpane, leaning gently into the night feeling it slipping through cold fingertips. Later when sipping coffee I glance out, there are shedding's now, fragments and scraps, a littering of a flimsy day breaking light. I wonder how so great a thing as the deeply fathomed dark could be lost in its leavings? My hand wants to say something more of this but its bones are sleeping and cannot now be reused.