In September the dawn comes roaring, full of blue and indicative of the ending summer. In June the dawn comes lazy like iced tea and lemon, singing birds and roses. In January the dawn comes creeping, a vague hint of light through the grey silk shroud that imperceptibly increases.

It's a pale light, a cool dull light, the sun barely filtering through the wisps of fog and tendrils of mist that rise from the ocean and creep along the rivers and hollows. Just when consciousness recognizes the apex of January light, the dusk comes smoothly and silently, darkening the world again.

Sometimes I think of the word "bleak," and other times "introspective," to define this month. It's like the wings of a moth.