Seamlessly, the night

Wrapped into the uppermost branches of a spindly tree outside my window, a white plastic bag dances in the cold night. As the milky material flaps and twists in the wind, flickers of the neighbor's Christmas lights sparkle through it, and I'm thankful for the crack in my blinds, allowing me to catch the scene from my bed. Tucked into the folds of soft beige sheets and wrapped around my mushy body pillow, I'm perfectly happy listening to the low, vaporous rumble of the heater at work on the other side of the room. Its song a comforting lull, but not the soft whisper of sleep I need it to be. Dark and warm, my homespace is a sensory wonder right now, which is probably why sleep evades.
From the kitchen comes the quickly bubbly rush of boiling water, soft and tinny deep inside the pot holding it. On the counter adjacent, chicken warms in the crock, a precursor to the coming cold and its defense of chicken noodle soup. A slight wisp of rosemary, the buttery warm scent of stock is lifted into the air and teases out into the main room, an invisible taunt.
I pull blankets aside and pad across the dense, nubby carpet in the dark, enjoying the noiseless endeavor. The feeling of the quiet, dark carpet against my feet perfectly matches the rest of my barely-visible picture; I'm in it without seeing it.
Now in the kitchen, I'm hoping the warm, soothing bowl of tea I've brewed is the sleepy, internal hug I need to finally tire for the night, but after writing all day, the head wheel is shifting and turning incessantly.
Order and time and organization have been flowing through the words with grace and ease, and I'd like to be able to write through the night and the looming chapters. It's been years since a one a.m word session for me, but the solid black letters fall easily into place among their biting, white backdrop, so I keep at it and pray for some sense in the morning.
And then... my cell phone's sharp, jarring chirp rouses me from my literary dream; a hollow vibration of plastic on wood shakes out a final insult to the peace. Who else is up at this hour, breaking my solace with technologically sound intrusions of text?