In the dark, before I rose, the sound of a thin high cry fluttering over the hedge.
What I thought was sand or a handful of gravel aimed at the glass turned out to be rain.
This is not an attempt to make small talk over a finger-length of bread, a thin wheel of fruit— paper napkin clutched between forefinger and balancing thumb.
Most days are hard to forecast: yesterday, they said thunderstorms, but the hours extended like a bright shingle at the height of summer.
You see, I worried about the recently transplanted verbena, but they seem to have recovered in that brief scattering of rain.
The dogwood, confused by the heat last winter, has decided to trust the air again.
What do I miss? I miss the low-creeping mimosa: those shy ones, they shrink from every touch— every leaf folding inward neatly, even in the merest wind.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.