“In Lucy Maud Montgomery style, describe the fall morning sunrise’s sights and sounds in seven sentences.”
Standing alone by the window, she took in the greyish countenance of the sky with weary eyes and felt reflected. The glass would be sealed for many months to come. Though the sun’s ascent was invisible behind countless turn of the century A-Frames, the stirrings of a few chestnut hoarding squirrels were chattering, muted, across the still air. Rowan boughs heavy with their scarlet offerings lent the window’s scene a little brightness. She longed to feel the crispness, allow the season’s calming to wrap around her from the outside, rather than merely take it in the essence of still life; but it was not up to her. The dying of one season had brought new life to her and her family’s small existence in Shelburne, and that life would protest her absence with much tiny fervor, should she seek the solitude of morning out of doors. Instead, she imagined the muted scents of lavender, thyme and rosemary moving through her nose and lungs and made a note in her mind to bring them in for drying as soon as possible.