Yesterday was the first day that felt of winter–endless grey and a buffeting wind that pushed against the windows, bowing them in groaning rhythms. Dry leaves flew and tumbled across the road like small brown animals scurrying for the shelter of ditches where they huddled, hunched and trembling.

I, too, hunched against the bluster, driving my neck into my coat collar, my eyes not ready to acknowledge this new season.

Still, within this brutal day, a moment of beauty: driving into campus, my car aimed at the eastern horizon, clouds clustered at the edge of earth like a blue mountain range. Above this craggy line, the sky glowed yellow in a thin band, bordered above by a dense metal grey lid of cloud, clamped down upon dawn. Dawn, however, would not be contained: it simmered and spilled from the lip of the cauldron that tried to suppress morning. Within minutes, light boiled into the grey, throwing off the lid, leaking sun.

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