Mist, soft on wattle trees. Paths take forms as sky lightens. But in the house there’s movement. My wife reads her phone in bed. I wake our daughter. “Still four minutes,” she says, from under her doona. She enjoys sleeping in, ever so warm and comforting. Mathematics examinations evaporate. Geography’s whatever’s happening. Art perfects a beautiful face. My wife and I step through shower, breakfast, until “She’s slept in.” Winter mornings are this last minute rush to the station, catching the train in seconds flat. Citybound, I read Arthur Waley’s Li Po book. His Chinese high-style suits such August mornings.