Window Light

Morning arrives in a single ray, cutting through apartment dust, touching yesterday's coffee cup with a tenderness time won't grant.

The city hums beneath— horns, sirens, the whisper of traffic— while this light holds still, a breath suspended between night and day.

I watch it move across the floor, a sundial with no shadow, measuring what refuses measurement.

By noon it will be gone, having changed nothing, having changed everything, a tenderness I meet anew each morning.