HABITUALLY LATE:

It was becoming a habit, one he wanted to nip in the bud, 
but the bud was starting to flower & days that started early
precisely so he could have time to write were filling with 
unwelcome noise. Any time past 9:00am there was no space for 
clear thinking where thoughts turned into words. 
He stood on the edge of the fields at dusk,watching mist rise 
thick from fields of barely & oil seed. A patchwork of Yellow 
& green stretching far into the distance & the air so thick you 
could cut it with scissors – it was going to be a hot night.

(K)