A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, if you have five quiet minutes — for jet lag

The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.

There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.

Let the mattress take all of it. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

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.

Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Let your breathing do the rest. Sleep.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the next part go past without you. Let them.

Five quiet minutes is enough. Ten is generous.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.