In the white of dawn
Jacob awoke to the groans and yawns of his brothers
throwing off quilts and
quickly pulling on
morning-chilled clothes
It was almost October
a halo of bright frost ringing the small, leaden panes of the window
casting a diffused, snowy light
into the room
Grabbing the poker from its hook on the wall
Willem
raked up the orange-hearted embers
that had burned low in the night
noisily ratting in the belly of the tiled corner oven,
Henrik
poured washing water
into the porcelain basin, began to scrub his face and neck
with a rag
Soon the room would be fleecy with warmth
and Jacob would tumble out of bed and pull
on his own clothes
A boy ready for his breakfast
Jacob kept silent about the dreams
about the sound that hunted through the house in the night, for him
in the bustle of morning it seemed
irrelevant
Silly dreams for his brothers to tease him about
if he let them
He closed his eyes and allowed the familiar cacophony
of morning
to blanket the sounds from the dream
still echoing
faintly
in his child-small ears