Windows

It's cooled down enough to open the windows at night.  My husband does it; by the time the temperature dips below the temperature on the indoor thermostat, I've tunneled too far into sleep to care. But when I wake in the very early morning to take over baby duty, nearly every window in the house gapes and the is house riddled with cool air.

You notice things, when the windows are open.  The stridency of the birds, for instance.  At dawn they are like Trump supporters at a MAGA rally, shouting the same thing over and over and over.  The absence of the highway's hum.  The surprising comings and goings of your neighbors, some unknown party crawling out of bed at 4:00 AM on a Saturday to slam the car door and murmur into the cool.

The paperboy, who is not a boy at all, arrives early in the 5:00 AM hour: the grumble of a slow-moving, poorly-maintained vehicle accompanied by a slightly ominous series of repetitive pops, papers dinging sidewalks and lawns and cars.

It's borrowed time.  The house is waking up; the temperature is rising.