This morning I yelled at the sun for not rising higher. (Dark winters in Oregon will do that to me.)
The rooftops were frozen, the water bowls were thick with ice, but the sun just sat there as though waiting for its bus.
“Come on,” I said, addressing the orb hunched on the horizon. “Go! Higher! Now!”
The sun checked its watch and yawned.
Perhaps my voice was too soft for this distance. Maybe I should have used a megaphone. Or maybe that faint music I heard from the east was the sun going, “La la la, I can’t heeear you.”
I tried a different tactic. “Here, Sunny, Sunny Sunny,” I cooed.
The sun did not come galumphing forward. But someone else did, my own personal ray of sunshine.
Daisy slipped her head beneath my hand. I entered auto-skritch mode. And my day became bright.
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Daisy is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and let me skritch thy head
which totally needs lots of skritches; I can tell.