It is quiet this morning. The sound of the furnace makes a soft rumbling sound as it spreads warm air through the vents in the floor. Cooper sits at my feet, leaning on the calf, keeping my toes warm. Bentley, my couch potato, is still curled up on his bed, which is the size of a floating mattress.

     The keys to my keyboard sound exceptional loud, only to be overshadowed by the muffled sounds of heat. The kettle boils but does not whistle. The cap is long gone and I watch as the steam creeps up to microwave, coating it with pearls of moisture.  I shuffle over to the stove, turn off the gas. The steam still rises and I lift the kettle and pour the water into my cup. The tea bag floats. Cooper is at my side. 

     I dip the spoon into the water and scoop out the tea bag that is floating. I squeeze out the water with the spoon and my fingers – hot – and throw it in the trash under the sink. The tea smells hot and I try to sip. I blow on the surface and attempt to sip again. Still to hot. I look out the window. The woods are still covered in a winter blanket and there is no sound.

     Taking the cup, I return to the table in the dining room.  The furnace is now quiet. Cooper returns to his place under the table by my feet. His breathing is heavy and loud. His eyes are closed. I sip the warm liquid and savor the flavor.

     Ask I work, the creek next to the “little” house, gurgles, “Where are the ducks?” before it flows over the waterfall and continues down to Oatka Creek. I look. The ducks are not upstream. Maybe later.

     Paper is strewn over my table, along with my sewing machine and pinned fabric waiting for thread to hold it together and become something. My mind wanders through my list of the day. That which has been completed has been filed away and new projects remerge, begging for completion.  My multi-colored bulky yarn is bunched in the center of the table next to the silver tray that holds a stapler, two pens, a magazine, and a book review. Valentine’s Day cards are neatly piled next to my book on top of the address book waiting for a pronouncement of my love for my family. I have time.

     The silence is broken by the sharp ring of the phone. I answer.

     “Attention, homeowners, are you behind one payment?”

I hang up. Computerized Telemarketing. They are a disruption I do not need.