Threshold of Revelation

Sitting in the blue light of the rainy morning with windows open I am quick again; in the cold wetted dawn is revival.
Crisp somehow.
Unmarked somehow.
It lets one breathe again a little while, before cool wettish fingers will oblige the window close, before the light broadens too greatly, before the blue is gone and the morning is just grey and wet;
For a few moments all is peace and still and good and you can smell the dew and the damp blooming.