You wake up and stretch your arms in the direction of the clouds, you have gotten into the habit of sleeping on the roof, so there are actually clouds above you—you love sleeping on a roof so much more than sleeping under a roof—and you feel something move in your beard but it isn’t alarming, after all you slept on a roof last night, and it’s starting to get a little cold, summer turning into fall, so your beard is probably a nice, warm place to sleep, and a lizard pokes its head out, little claws tentatively stepping onto your white t-shirt clad chest, and you say to it, “Good morning little buddy, did you have a good sleep?” and the lizard stretches, first one leg then the other, then ventures further out onto your chest, starfishes itself out, because the sun is coming out from behind the clouds—warmth below, warmth above—and you are a little thirsty, your water bottle is within reach, but rocks in the desert can’t just drink water whenever they want, they must wait for the rains to come, also the lizard has closed its eyes, and you don’t want to interrupt this peaceful moment for him, or for yourself.
