Tints of Slow Yellow

The windowpane is weeping, the sky has paused its slow stalking clouds they hang now as still as rocks. There was an ill-wind last night it woke up the morning light too early. I could write on the glass with a fingertip but words would cry themselves to sleep in this unmoving dreamscape. A faint suspicion of yellow slowly creeps up to my door at a pace too endless to measure. I turn away listening for the telltale creaking of my mouth swallow this moment down switch on the TV where there may be is some activity happening somewhere.