I like my sunshine sunny-side up. The fork pierces to the yolk to spark the fusion reaction that fills my plate with nourishing yellow light. The gestation period for morning exuberance is inversely proportional to how many cups of dark matter are ingested (but directly proportional to the force of gravity later exerted on the eyelids.) Through the kitchen window, I see the cresset of the moon still hanging in the pale morning sky. I see the limpid brook meandering through the champaign. Burnt toast is an extraterrestrial landscape, dead and scarred with craters. I’ll dip it in the yolk, I’ll soak it through and through with sunshine. The unread newspaper waits, silent and heavy, deep and silent, in my office down the hall. The diaphanous moon lingers still in the dawn. The limpid brook feeds the champaign.