The dawn is stillborn, devoid of the pinks and purples and soft refractions usually carried there, instead it holds dull oranges and anonymous grays; it gives no warmth and the chill remains, even as I find myself on the river. The trees crowd the river, twisted digitated branches appearing as broken carpals and metacarpals, fractured by age and struggle and proximity, hovering overhead. The surface is veiled by a veneer of mist, it hides only from those who have never known, masks nothing for those already haunted.
Islamic lore contains a creature, a Jinn, that is supernatural, but somewhat less than an angel, a spirit with free will, capable of influencing the acts of men. Capable of shaping their thoughts and desires and driving them to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do.