Morning in the Village

I open the oak door carefully
so the boys will not wake.

The key turns slowly.
In this house every sound
seems older than the day.

Outside the street is still half asleep.

The stones hold last night’s warmth.
A broom moves somewhere in the dark
and a shopkeeper lifts a shutter.

Soon the small noises begin.

A dog barking down the lane.
A rooster insisting on the morning.
Cicadas already rehearsing their music.

The baker is first to open.

Then the fishmonger
with his crates of silver fish
laid out like offerings.

I buy bread, olives, cheese.
These things feel ceremonial
at this hour.

The bell of the church rings once
and the village becomes itself again.

Walking back up the hill
the dust rises around my shoes.
The houses glow faintly
in the early light.

I open the door again.

The boys are still sleeping.

I place the bread on the table
and stand for a moment
in the quiet house.

Morning arrives slowly here.

For a while
everything feels complete.