In the morning he usually gets up before dawn.

Slips on his pants and goes down the corridor to the kitchen.

Once there, he gets the fire in the stove going with a few logs of wood.

Fills the little blue enamel pan and puts it on the stove.

Washes his face quickly with cold water from the kitchen tap.

Waits a few minutes for the water in the pan to come to the boil.

The can of chicory coffee stands on the shelf above the stove. He moves the pan of simmering water to one side and adds two spoonfuls of ground coffee. He turns, takes his cup from the kitchen dresser on the opposite wall, gets the tea strainer out of the drawer. He pours the coffee into the cup through the strainer. Crumbles a slice of bread into the liquid to make a mush. He sits down at the table in the corner of the room with his cup, spoons the soaked bread out of the coffee. Sitting in front of the window, with the door behind him, he looks out into the darkness.

In summer he likes to sit on the bench behind his house and drink his coffee there. He listens to the birds’ dawn chorus in the air that is still cool and pure. Bird after bird strikes up its song. Always in the same order, never changing. From where he sits he can hear them singing while the sun rises above the horizon.

He empties his cup and puts it down in the kitchen. The farm is awake now, and he goes about his day’s work. Usually in silence at this early hour. Alone with himself and his thoughts. By the time day is clearly distinct from night, those precious moments of leisure are long past.

That’s in summer.

In winter, he sits at the kitchen window where he is sitting now, looking out, impatient for the days to lengthen soon, so that he can enjoy his daily morning ritual again.