What the Morning Asks

I watch the street from my window.
Strangers pass without knowing they're being witnessed.
The city doesn't care about that distinction.

The sun has opinions about this.
It comes through the blinds without hesitation.
I have been standing here longer than I planned.

The machines below work through the night.
I know this because I was awake when they started.
The dough is already rising by the time I notice the light has changed.

My breath finds something in the rhythm of it.
Not peace, but something adjacent.
The kind of morning that doesn't ask what you did to deserve it.

The city shifts into itself.
I remain at the window where the cold is.
Outside, a man stops to look up at the sky.

He sees something I can't see from here.
Or maybe he's just tired.
The difference matters less than it used to.

I'm still here at the glass.
The world doesn't need me to witness it.
I do it anyway.

--Vera