Tuck me up the sleeve of Oregon autumn. At the wrist, through the post-setting sunset; a color like the reflection of light radiating vessel-red off skin and meeting the dusky shadow half way. Never brightest bright or darkest dark. Constant, comforting grey. The season holds its breath, drives the tunnel, echoes steady – turning pale purple blue around 5 am. Early morning sky unbuttons slow to the cuff of my sleeping ear: a noise on the window glass, where my dreams are pressed.