The Silence of Morning

The light coming in between the curtains is unusually soft. Steam rises from the teacup by the window and slowly disappears. Suddenly, a page of the book I closed yesterday stirred a little, as if brushed by the wind. It seems I won't need an umbrella today. The leaves along the road look deeper in color than usual, and the distant rooftops are hazy, as if paint had been thinned across them. Watching them, I find myself slowing my steps without meaning to. The morning air wraps around me, neither cold nor hot. Wanting to remember this feeling for a long time, I deliberately chose the long way home.