It's a beautiful pink and blue sunrise, three hundred and sixty degrees around the sky. The clouds are moving rapidly and the leaves are being blown from the trees, fast, fast. I remember you so clearly this morning, Alice. I'm up early like you wanted me to be. It's a time of beautiful light -- like you.
I remember you, in your self, your you-ness, Alice-ness, as real as if you were here somewhere, running around outside in the cold air, moving through the fallen leaves. It's an autumn sky: fast clouds of all shapes skimming by and the cool sun hitting the white tops of the western ones. The wind blows and it blows memories at me like the dead leaves into the river.