The waking sun struggled sleepily to its feet and peered cautiously over the horizon. It squinted over the trees, dormant under their fluffy blankets, the river and its wrinkled sheets of ice (“The River never makes his bed” thought the sun) and the hundreds of little houses peppered over the hills.
Everything seemed to be sleeping still, regardless of the growing light.
Should he shine brighter and wake the birds?
“No,” muttered the sun drowsily, “Today can wait for a bit.”
And he pulled a cloud over his head and went back to sleep.
I do wish that would happen every week or so. We could have a leap-year every month to catch up on sleep-days, don’t you think?