A rare winter sunrise in Chicago.
Not that sunrises in Chicago are actually rare; it’s just that I rarely see them.
The colder it gets, the harder it seems to be to wake up.
But sometimes, you stumble out of bed, glance into the living room, and are unexpectedly greeted by shafts of sun passing through the translucent blouse you left to dry above the radiator. And the normally harsh sheet of ice on the window is temporarily infused with a soft, rose-yellow glow.
You stagger back to bed, photos snatched, ready for sleeping again.
When you wake–truly wake–two hours later, they are the only evidence you weren’t dreaming about the preternatural light.