antsy

Winter evenings get dark early and quickly. By seven it’s been dark for nearly two hours and I start to get real antsy.

The evening wears on slowly; the woods around the house, the seclusion of the house, adds to the slowness even on a usual day. But today, I want to fly into space and spin the earth faster, and with a million arms move every clock forward till the sweet dew of the morning drips on to your lips and coaxes you to wakefulness.

Perchance, says the morning, she’ll think it flows from his lips.