Morning Form

I planted my boots on the oak floorboards and squared my shoulders toward the silvered glass at the base of the dresser. A man cannot allow his guard to soften overnight. Drawing in a steady breath, I threw a clean, compact jab through the morning air, following through with a grounded left hook that snapped to a halt an inch from the reflection. My stance held firm, weight centered low over bent knees. Three disciplined combinations cut through the silence of the room without wasting an ounce of motion. The body answers when called upon. The day starts on solid footing.