With the longing that day break brings into coming day and grey of dawn, an unfocused haze of visibility besets the open plain on which a cottage is set. The landscape once fluttered in the wind like an emboldened flag, and is now old and sentimental, fluttering no longer but set in place with waves and rolling hills: a timeless icon of the American Midwest. I look out from a window at the front of the cottage. My left hand placed above my head against the window frame holds my weight as I lean forward into the view from where the house stands, atop a ripple in the flag. I slightly lean more forward and close my eyes exhaling. I can feel my breath collect before me on the window. It is surprisingly warm. My forehead softly presses upon the cold moist glass. There is dew outside. I know, despite not having yet gone out this morning, but closed eyed and warm breathed and against glass cold and pressed I know there is dew. And slowly as I without end exhale closed eyed against cold glass I know the sun breaks forth from bleak faint light. The glass gradually grows in warmth and makes less show of its wicking battle bereaving breath.