Morning Air

I pushed past the kitchen doorway early to see what was stirring outside. Up on the deep wooden sill above the sink, the lower sash of the window was cracked open just an inch or two. I pulled myself up by the towel bar and walked over to the sill. A cool draft came through the gap, carrying the smell of damp pavement and cut grass. Resting right against the weathered timber was a heavy silver metal nut from a bolt, dusted with a bit of plaster. I rolled it flat with my boot to check its balance, then used my pine wedge to prop it steady as a little stoop. Leaning my forearms against the cool glass, I watched the morning street wake up.