Snowy Morning

The cat’s pleas (delivered while stomping on my chest, full voice, with all the rage of a thousand kibbles denied) and my own restlessness rouse me from bed hours before my “shame alarm” is set to go off, and I stumble into the grainy half-light of the morning kitchen. Out the back window, the lightly snowy backyards of the buildings behind us are a study in half-tone contrasts, all white and black and a million grays in-between. A few final snowflakes hurry down the sky, like soldiers arriving late to a battle that’s already over, to lay themselves down in the field next to their brethren and dream of soft and quiet.

The microwave goes off, the cat’s food is ready, and I lean down to receive my high-five in payment for her food, which she, after a moment’s thought, reluctantly gives.