Two forty.

The house is cold.  There is snow outside, coating the trees and the fence.

The world is silent.

My eyes are heavy, and want to close. I turn onto my right side, curl my knees just so to ease the aching in my back.  I slow my breath. I imagine sleep.

The trick, I know, is not to think of sleep, not directly.  If I chase it, it will slip away in a little spurt of alertness, replaced at once by the awareness that I am most certainly not really sleeping.  The trick, I have learned, is to lie in readiness for sleep, to be open to it when it creeps in.

I begin to drift away on an almost dream of summer winds, but then I notice that I have drifted, and sleep runs away again.

A turn to my left side now, adjust the pillow, think of ocean waves.  Relax, let go, just let it come and take me.

I float for a moment, filled with lightness, empty of thought. I see a student, one of my struggling souls. Worry rushes in, pushing out the light.  I crash back to earth with a racing heart.  Minutes drag by as I try and fail to turn my thoughts away from this child, away from the day, away from the TV news that is no doubt a part of his acting out.

My eyes are so heavy.  They want so much to close and rest.  I let the lids fall, but I find that I am still looking out into the cloudy night.  Is there more snow falling now?

I turn onto my right side, hand under my cheek.

I try to let myself drift. I wait for sleep.

Dawn comes.