A lake before dawn, when the weather has kept you inside — for the hours after a late shift

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. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.

The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Your chest can be still now.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.

Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.

Let the mattress take all of it. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

Nothing here needs following closely. Sleep.

Stay with the weight of your body. Let the dark be ordinary. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Bad weather is a decent excuse to stay in and do this.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.