Winter and summer. First thing.
Even before the coffee brews.
Travelers home from the country of sleep.
The sun just clears the woods, shadows long in the yard, each blade of grass tipped with dew and the sun in it. Ten thousand suns at our feet.
The field-returning-to-woods is thick with wonder. A spider line rises and falls in a breeze unfelt, more a slide of air than wind, light refracting on its length, a linear prism.
Mourning doves call from the dripping trees.
We understand the mundane dread of having to be at a specific place at a specific time.
We know the privileges of time.
We keep this appointment with ourselves.
copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved
