I love it when the morning smells like rain, it is the sweetest perfume in the world. My love rose early to mold and shape liquid rock. He whistles when he rises, a soft undercurrent, a melody to the fishtank burble in the darkened room. He dresses quickly and in the half-sleep when I float in dreams I hear him trying to be quiet in the kitchen. He has a job pouring concrete, shaping it, smoothing it, finishing it. He wears baggy old pants and a loose shirt, a floppy hat and big black rubber boots. I taste coffee on his lips when he kisses me quick 'bye see you later love you have a good day you too.

He'll come home with silvery gray cement chunks adhered to his hair, under his nails, streaked on his face, smudged on his clothes, spattered droplets of a liquid that quickly sets to solid. He'll shower, emerging well-scrubbed, shining all over from a hard day's work in the sunshine.