The sunrise is telling stories again.

It's crafty like that.

She's very good at forgetting these days,

But it won't let her.

They have an understanding at this late stage of their friendship,

She and the sky.

All she has to do is look up,

And the rest is up to the memories.

It starts early.

Standing next to the coffee pot, letting the first soft pinks touch the faux-wood grain of the countertops.

She is old now and should not be able to see them,

But the sun tells her that she is young,

That her hair is dark and her lips full,

That this is another morning with another coffee pot and another impossibly pink window.

Another morning with a breeze just cold enough to blush her cheeks,

Alpine air thin and bracing,

Big stoneware bowls of cereal carried outside to catch the first birdsongs,

A kiss heated up by the autumn wind.

Another steaming mug lifted to the sky,

Coffee blending with woodsmoke blending with something else,

Something steady like cedarwood, aftershave maybe.

The sky knows how much these little details matter.

This other morning,

Using her good eyes,

Watching the sun turn the tops of mountains that dusky purple that means they are alive up there,

Listening with her ears that have never been stronger,

For the excitable clip-clop that means a mountain goat has had quite enough of being observed,

Listening for the eager footstep of a once and future love who wants only to steal as many mountain mornings as he can,

She makes a bargain with the sky.

"When my hair is white,

And my name is a mystery to me,

Bring me a sunrise so this will last forever."