The morning is quiet,
except for the sound of a plane overhead.

A car passing by.
The cat going down the stairs.
The morning is quiet.
I do not disturb
the stillness in the air,
the promise,
with the sound of the piano.
Not yet.
I savor this quiet
with my breakfast
and breaking news.
The morning is quiet.
It is cold in the house.
I take a blanket 
and watch the birds
on their morning commute.
I stay here,
in the silence.
Soaking each moment in,
taking no minute of it
for granted.
The mornings are quiet.