The Temperature of Morning

Mornings have clearly changed lately. The air outside settles with a different weight than yesterday, and the light through the curtains stretches a little longer. I notice that faint difference in temperature only once I've opened the door and stepped out. Autumn doesn't arrive all at once; it seems to seep in slowly, like this, through the morning air. One day short sleeves feel wrong, and another day warm water on your hands is strangely consoling. Those small sensations pile up and tell you the season has turned. This morning I saw fog on the glass. It was a kind of signal I'd forgotten all summer. I wrote something, anything, on it with my finger, then wiped it away at once. My heart felt as lightly emptied as the space I'd erased. Watching smoke rise from houses where people haven't woken yet, I think that everyone is beginning a morning of their own. What hour is my own morning? The hour of walking slowly, of looking up at the sky without meaning to. In front of this quiet change the season has brought, I take it out and look at it again.