The Morning's Lid

The hand opening the lunchbox lid pauses a moment in the morning air. Through the rising steam, each grain of rice glistens. Not packed last night, but rice cooked warm after rising before dawn. Knowing that is what gets me through the day. Sitting on the corner of the bench, I slowly lift my chopsticks. Before eating, once, I look out at the ridgeline. I came alone, but this is not a lonely morning. The tree's shadow moves a hand's width along the bench, and the last of the steam on the lid scatters into the sky.