I’m taking my toast & coffee on the patio this morning. The cicada are screeching, the songbirds are singing distantly, and the sun is just coming into its sky. It rises over my right shoulder and through the morning’s last dew and lifting vapors provides the most gentle & diffuse light which to write by.
A black swallowtail butterfly works its way down from the wildflower verge to the patch of Queen Anne’s lace on the hill above the retaining wall. The air settles on the skin with just enough of the night left in it to chill the shoulders. But this will change. The birds are closing in as the insects stir and the bees are soon back to work in the blooms of the crepe myrtle. And so it is decreed by the mourning doves’ coo, the new day is here. A new day, as the workers arrive, a new day and all is well. I’ll walk the dog and feed the cat, recall last night’s dreams, and count my blessings.