Morning arrives quietly, the way it does when you’ve stayed in long enough to notice the small shifts. The light is pale and steady, pressed up against the glass. Beyond it, the Hudson lies flat and muted, and the Palisades hold their dark line across the water—solid, familiar, trusted even when half-seen.
On the sill, two potted plants lean toward the day. They don’t hurry. They simply keep reaching, as if that’s the whole practice: living alongside slow weather, a long view, the ordinary hours.
Good morning, Wednesday. It’s a simple phrase, but it has room inside it. Room for routines that have softened. Room for the quiet work of keeping a home settled—coffee cooling, curtains half drawn, the outside world held at a distance a little longer.
There’s comfort in these midweek mornings, when nothing is finished and nothing has to be. Just a window, a ledge, a few living things turning toward whatever light is available. Some days, that’s enough.
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