The Temperature of Dawn

As three in the morning quietly passes, the air outside the window is unusually cold. After every house has gone dark, the hour when I alone am awake slips by without a sound, like the moment the date changes on a calendar. A sip of the water left in the cup, and the day's tension settles a little. That I don't have to do anything, that I don't have to prepare anything for anyone, is the comfort of dawn. The quiet night is like someone who asks for no answer, and for a while being alone becomes easy. Among the lights dotted outside the window, I think someone may be awake like me. That person too will linger for a while, and once this long night passes, greet an ordinary morning. We don't know each other, but a kind of contact happens, as if we were crossing the same hour. Breathing in the dawn air, I crawl into bed, and before sleep I sort through unclear thoughts. When I pull up the blanket with a light sigh, today piles up in its layers. Tomorrow too I may wake suddenly and remember this quiet temperature. That temperature won't be so cold. Perhaps a little warm, with the air of something waiting for me.