writing

Morning Fog

A ghostly white fog covers the lake. The far shore sits, I know, but it is unseen. A muggy wind blows; the day is confused. Will it be warm or cold, sunny or gray?

I slide the window shade up for a better view; then slide the window pane up for my friend who is pawing at my feet. He jumps up on his stand, then settles in.

A motion in the grass just outside catches his attention. His body stills and a quiet meh comes from his mouth. A small finch captures his attention as it seeks out grubs for breakfast.

His head arches upward as the bird takes flight. He settles back down and stretches out, resting his sweet little face on his paws. His face is still kittenish even at his senior age of eight.

His litter mate comes up behind us both and taps my foot with her paw. A demanding mew echoes causing brother to jump a bit. I look down at my other ball of fur.

She taps then mews again, then beckons me to follow her to the wellspring for a sip of glorious nectar. For us humans, this is known as the bathtub and water, respectively. I give into her request as she has trained me, then pet her head.

I return to the bedroom after a moment and spy the fog lifting. No matter what the weather brings, I know. It’s going to be a wonderful Saturday.

writing

Morning Chill

Coldness seeped over her toes and soles as she stepped onto the paver lined drive. A crisp wind tousled her hair. The chirps of birds echoed from the large oak before her. They darted in and out between the branches, dancing in the first light of the day.

A calmness came over her as her bare feet guided her across the drive. From behind and overhead, she heard the flaps of oversized feathered wings. She turned, the sun now at her back, and lifted her chin to the heavens.

Gracefully, the large grey birds swooped down, landing in the grass just across the drive. She stood frozen as to not frighten them.

Their squawks reverberated between the houses as they courted each other with a show of feathers. Their red faces bobbed and long beaks chattered like two teenagers on their first date.

Eventually they calmed and started looking for their breakfast. Slowly they wandered off in search of greener grasses or maybe grubbier ones instead.

She smiled to herself. The cranes had her attention such that she hadn’t felt the cold settle in. Now that they were gone, her attention returned. She rubbed her arms for a little warmth and made her way back inside. What a beautiful way to start the day!

poetry, writing

Early Morning

A gentle rain moves through,

Waking me from my slumber.

Sunrise is still hours away,

But I breath softly, listening to the beat.

Dawn finally breaks,

and the sounds change.

The hoot of an owl bids the night goodbye,

While the screech of the hawk greets the morn.

The stars recede as the night gives way,

And the skies are now clear and blue.

Sweet dreams my nocturnal friends,

As daylight beckons us to start our day.

writing

Beach Mornings

I believe the best time to walk the beach is when a sliver of the moon shines brightly. The stars are twinkling remnants of the evening. The waves are crashing on the shore, blowing you a kiss and bringing peace you can only find from within.

Dawn breaks and the sky turns into pinks, blue and purple. The waves magically calm down, the rhythm slows as the sun approaches. Slowly one begins to see the shells scattered along the shore brought in overnight by the tide.

Birds dance along the waters edge looking for their breakfast.

The cafés scattered along the beach turn on their lights waiting for patrons.

Early-morning walkers stroll along the sand gathering their thoughts for the day. One must wonder if they do this every day or if they are on a break from their lives.

The breeze is cool as it hits my face. The sky is getting lighter. Along the shore are shells so beautiful waiting to be taken home by the next person walking by. The day begins.