from an unexpected gift carried back from the Horn massif. It tastes of sun and smoked spice. I grind and let it bloom, wrap my fingers around the mug when the drip’s done. Cold snap came down hard this week, there’s a frost on the back lawn when the night clears. But I keep the rads off until four. Work to a candle. And drink more Ethiopian. I may be a poor scribe but I have coffee fit for kings.
