this morning

There's only birdsong.

The fridge is silent. There's no swish of the washing machine, no rumble of the dishwasher. No gentle thump as the water pump and boiler set to their morning work.

Just the birds, and the tumult of thought, the receding tide of last night's dreams.

The bloody power's out.

I swear a lot and wipe the sleep from my eyes.

The power returns, but not the hot water.

I swear some more.