Those days when you just can’t wait to go to bed. Not to slump down onto it in yielding surrender or fall into it in tears, face first and meat red, but to gently pull back the pillowy quilt and the sheets, with tiny blue flowers, flannelette, like a fresh work shirt, so that when you slide in carefully and make your cave in the sheets the hug is work-arm strong and reminds you of soil and wheelbarrows and gardening and building in the sun as it sets… and rises… open eyes still hugged, you stand lightly then soft pad to warm, dark, sweet, pitch-bitter coffee, and lifting the mug, you pause before the first sip of bliss, flooding deep in waking flavours from magic beans grown in ancient Ethiopian forests, noticed by folk when curious goats turned zestful, becoming a helper for evening prayer, to allow hard work and intentional presence to earn well your tiredness, so that you just can’t wait to go to bed…