She's at the easel before six most days — not out of discipline, she'd wave that word off, but because the light is only itself for about forty minutes and then it's gone.
The first cup is for looking. Nothing gets painted until it's empty.
You can't chase the morning. You sit still and let it arrive, and if you're lucky some of it ends up on the board.
By eight the tide's turned, the colour's flattened out, and she's done. The rest of the day is for everything that isn't this.