The Temperature of Morning

Sunlight through the curtains draws a thin golden line across the blanket. The glass of water I left out yesterday is still lukewarm on the table. From the kitchen comes the sound of water boiling, followed by the low sound of a spoon touching the glass jar as it scoops coffee grounds. Before the scent reaches the living room, I'm listening to that sound, the soles of my feet still cold. Outside the window a cuckoo sits on the power line. Quite some time passes and it's still there. I think it's fine for someone's morning to begin this slowly. I walk to the living room and take a sip of coffee. A slight bitterness stays on my tongue, and while its warmth travels down inside me, a few minutes pass in which I don't have to do anything. Mornings like this pile up into a year, and many days I won't remember quietly switch on and off.