A lake before dawn (a sleep story), after a long day — for an overtired night

The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.

Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Let the next part go past without you. Just the breath.

Slower. The words can start to blur now. Just the dark.

Use it at the end of a long day, not at the start of one.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.