Some days whiz by, with sunrise almost meeting sunset in passing. But then there are those days that stagger past: a slow unraveling of time. Clocks tick louder and taunts with enjoyment of lingering seconds.
What day is this? Fast or slow? How to measure?
Is time measured in chores needed to be done? Is it counted out by songbirds in citrus trees?
Is time meted step by step from start to destination? Cars passing on their way to and from?
Such weariness is passing of time when it is slow and reluctant.
Such exhilaration when whirling creativity stirs up wells of thinking.
What day is this?