Sunday breakfast

Sunday. All the world is asleep. The sky emboldens to a misty gray that glazes all the green with silver and light. The air is fresh, so fresh, and cool. No sitting outside on the patio this morning, instead, breakfast inside. I feel like tea instead of coffee. Jasmine tea, yes, and poached egg with toast. The silk of the robe teases my skin as I move about, and the scent of jasmine teases my nose. I set up the tray, the smallest one of Grandmother's silver ones. It needs a good polishing but I use it anyway. I put the tray on the ottoman, turn on the reading lamp, put on Brahm's Sonata No 1 for Cello and Piano. I go looking for salt, and when I return, I notice the breakfast setting is lovely, especially in the soft morning light, and snap a few photos before enjoying the meal.