The morning sun draws itself in lines across my hand as I lift the shades. Three succulents on the sill squint and awaken.
I fill the kettle with filtered water, set it on the stove, and wait as heat gathers, quietly like the introduction of a song before the singing begins.
I scoop the grounds into the press— piñon nut coffee from New Mexico, dark, resinous, faintly sweet, holding desert sun in its edges.
The water stirs before it speaks. I watch the surface tremble, then rise into a low, certain boil.
At the window, my black cat claims his post. A squirrel meets him there, small hands braced against the glass. They study each other as if to ask, "Oh, just you? Again?"
In the living room, my white cat stretches long across the rug, pressing herself into the day. A small felt cat rests beside her— a careful replica, stitched into stillness.
The kettle calls me back. I pour.
Water meets grounds, and the air deepens— coffee blooms, expands, releases what it has carried.
I stir once, twice, set the lid, and press the timer: four and a half minutes.
I lean into the counter where the sun has already shifted.
Steam lifts from the press, moves through the room beckoning even the walls to wake.
The squirrel disappears. My black cat stays, newly enthralled by a robin hopping through grass.
My white cat settles beside her smaller self. They rest in the same light, one breathing, one not.
The timer sounds. I press the plunger down, slow, steady, feel the quiet resistance give way— a practice in patience amid anticipation.
I pour the coffee. I lift the cup. I take the first sip.
Another morning where God makes morning and succulents and sunlight and cats,
Iris Lennox 