A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of

The story, in full

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

Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.

Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Just the weight. You can stop listening properly.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. You do not have to count them. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Five quiet minutes is enough. Ten is generous.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.