As I edged back into consciousness in the lingering dark of early morning, a sound I don’t normally hear rang out from within the forest I knew lay beyond my blinded window. It was the call of an owl, trilling one-two, one-two, one-two, then subsiding. The pattern of soft, throaty cries repeated twice before finally fading away.
If I hadn’t awakened at just the right moment, I’d have missed it.
I went to the kitchen, where I discovered I was out of the Atkins chocolate shakes I usually have for breakfast. But my nonstick pan was right there in the sink from making home fries last night, so I washed it and set it on the stove. I’m out of Country Crock, too, but I’ve been wanting to shift to real butter. I halved the chunk of stick left in the fridge, then halved that and set one bit to melting in the microwave and the other to melting in the pan.
When the microwave half was melted I used a basting brush to coat two slices of wheat bread with it. While the buttered bread toasted, I fried two eggs over medium, one at a time, cracking them into the center of the pan and sprinkling them with pepper and salt.
I brought my morning meal to my desk and sat and ate as the dim light beyond my office window shifted from dark velvet to paint palette blue to breathlessly pale.