110812 #copperhead at exactly the right time before midmorning starts to seem like late morning, but later than the throes of early morning—when you’re driving into but just enough under the sun; when the long grass that only lives near freeways is lit up with the kind of light designed by fairies whose teacher said okay, say ‘green,’ but shape your heart like ‘gold;’ through the exquisite steam of orange pekoe and cut black tea, with just a little sugar for the road. It must be somewhere around ten o’clock, and it doesn’t matter. That’s just it. It doesn’t matter. That’s the time for tea the color of the black earth just now being warmed by the secret sun of only this time on only this earth, outside your rolled-up windows as you drive, just now.