I never quite understood night owls. People up until high hours are knocked down to small numbers. People who sleep their way to double digits again.
When I woke at 4 this morning, it was just me and the winter rain, like an old friend returned and calling me from the clapboards of the house, the newly-running gutters, the softly-gurgling drains.
Like me, every window is dark and reflective now. The world has constricted to the small circle of light I sit in with this book. It’s just the author, whispering, and me, listening, only occasionally interrupting in that complementary back-and-forth writers and readers have honored since Gutenberg.
The family still sleeps. The old dog, who got up briefly, settles at my feet, patiently waiting for my morning moment to expire so we can go out to meet the rain.
But first, this silence. This coffee. This book. All at a time when anything seems possible and everything feels refreshed and new.
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