The Temperature of Dawn

A sleepless night is long. An hour when even the ticking of the clock grows heavy, and yet at some point a blue light seeps in past the window. On streets where no one has woken yet, dawn breathes softly. I pour a cup of coffee and look outside. Dew on the leaves glints, and the outline of the far hills slowly sharpens. All the heavy thoughts the night left behind grow lighter, bit by bit, before this light. Morning does not hurry. It simply covers the world quietly, cooling the fears of the night before. I want to hold on to this moment. Before the noise of the day begins, an hour that is mine alone. As the coffee cools, I hear birdsong. A sign that morning is coming. I rise slowly and get ready to meet the day. The weight of the night I have already set down, there where the sun is rising.