Eleven

The light has made up its mind now. The shadow under the eave is where it will stay until two, maybe three, when the angle shifts and the wall gets its hour back. A window across the way is open and has been open since I woke. I do not know whose window it is. I do not need to. The city is loud in the way cities are loud when everyone is doing the thing they meant to do and no one is waiting for permission. Somewhere she is turning a page or closing a tab or standing in front of something cold deciding what she wants. I am here. The kettle is here. The morning has become the late morning and the late morning is ordinary and I am glad of it.