Morning is quiet.
Just me and the dog.
Still,
Save for the scratch of my pen,
The creak of the chair,
The scrape of paws on a hardwood floor.
Poinsettias from Christmas are dusty,
But alive.
Ski boots wait by the radiator.
Scarves and jackets hang from the closet door.
Yet it is warm.
The sun oozes through the windows,
Seeking out the cold corners left over from winter.
The front porch groans under familiar feet.
I am not alone.
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