Both.

Dawn comes equipped with fingers, rose tinged and welcoming the clean slate promise of the day.
Stretched like a cat, languorously along the horizon, light finds itself growing exponentially, finding inspiration in stars plucked from the heavens, absorbed by it’s all or nothing nature.

Dusk slips into something more comfortable, a muslin misty softening of the sharp edges that hide more easily in the night.
A calm, contrary to the cacophonous chorus of birdsong, pushes the air into ever broadening strokes, creating space where there always was some, now there is just more, and we bask, insignificant and intrinsic to the dance.

This roundabout, more spiral than circuitous spin, the sun rising and falling like a drawn out breath, a bookmark to hold our place in time, if not space.