I like to prowl my house early in the morning, with no one else awake. Things are not the same in the morning; the light settles in a different way as it streams in through our windows.
The best mornings of all are like today: the windows left open last night have let in a chill, an unseasonable edge to the air. The light coming in is not quite enough to make coffee, to write. I've had to light the semi-gloom with a lamp.
Today is still a book with an unbroken spine, full of blank pages. There is so much promise. Later there will be lunches to make, budgets to build, data to move, a child to read to and laundry to wash.
For now, there is the light, the air, and me.