Morning


My eyes are steadied by the overhead fan. The dark blades circle in play about the white ceiling. I curve my body and pull the covers close. I am cold, but I like the lulling fan.

The birds are in the tree again and just outside my window. The tree is inhabited by their melodic shrills and staccato, high-pitched bleats. I slightly turn my head towards them — unable to resist or to understand. Their call and response reminds me of a good Sunday morning sermon.

My airy white room is made brighter still by the sun. The lightness of the room is grounded by a few pieces of heavy furniture. The walls are empty except for a gift from years ago. Behind a dark frame and glass, is the sparse arrangement of curved wood elements. A woman is praying.

Lightly, almost magically, it begins to rain. The rain thumps against the leaves of the big tree. The birds have quieted. There is a silence that I adore.

Always, there are things to do. But, I look to the praying woman across from me and feel the fan above me. I stretch and curl back up. I rest again to ease into a new day.

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