It drips on me, staining me umber. Like wax from the tip of a quill, It’s rays write on my skin, a gentle burn, spelling out how quiet the world should be.

From East to West, It takes a leap, like a thirsty orange cow jumping over a blue moon, pausing to take a bight out of vast green fields.

My skin responds, my follicles are like an audience drenched in a neon spectacle. My fine hairs perform a standing ovation at the slightest breeze of tangerine.

As It wanders from Dusk to Dawn, dragging it’s milky cloak across the sky, It kneels at the horizon of Western’s edge and drops down on one knee to join in a game of celestial marbles with fragrant young Stars.

And in an hour or two, less or more in other parts, It stands to greet the light of the Nightwatchman’s lantern. A loud knock on the nocturnal door announces the arrival of Night’s crew.

Windows are cracked, stoves are cooling, and the rhythm of Dark’s breathing mixes with Thunder’s tight slumber.

Sweet Orange Dreams.