The mower woke us, motor throbbing through the room, then dying … sigh, turn over, the blur of a close face, the touch— blossoming into morning, light opens to laughter as we wake to being human, sculpt ourselves in sheet, and talk of what to do on Sunday in such light; then standing in a motion in her simple skin, she walks to the kitchen, makes coffee, singing, serves willingly where no one would command; finished waking, we dress lightly, leave, confirm through morning and the day our ancient, nightly trust of two asleep.