Window After the Fog

Six o'clock, dawn light seeping through the curtains. Breath fogged the glass, and he managed to draw a cloud on it with one finger. His breath was still short. The room was full of cold air, and the kettle on the stove was boiling with a low sound. The night's rain had darkened the wet sidewalk under the streetlight. Outside the window, a slowly thinning fog, the blurred outlines of utility poles and roadside trees. When he wiped the glass with his palm, morning came in between the handprints. Where yellow leaves had been torn off by the wind, bare branches stretched toward the sky. On the desk lay the letter written last night, not yet in its envelope. The scent of coffee spread, and the kettle's steam fogged the glass again. Beyond it, once the fog lifted completely, the hour of the first bus would probably come. He picked up the pen, but the dried ink would not obey.