Sometimes the morning light
is like paint, bright on everything. Sometimes it is the patina on an old brass bowl. Sometimes, the gleam in a lover's eye. Today it is the smile of an old woman seeing her greatgrandson for the first time. Yes, sometimes our mornings are sugary sweet. We cannot, without closing our eyes entirely, deny the part of us that's sentimental. I won't do that. I'll risk being laughed at as a sentimentalist before I'll risk missing out on life, the full bite of it.
Some haze again. Heavy dew. Our world is green, sunlight spilled as drops of dew winking on the lawn.
Downtown a fellow drives an old farm truck towards me, his face lined like the bark of a tree. Only a little wind in the flag at the cemetery. Out in the country I can see of a mile and a half before the haze closes the curtain.
Birds on a power line. Is it time for them to flock together?
North of Five Corners, all but one or two of the day lilies in the ditch are gone.
These mornings, I write; therefore I'm late.
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