The birds are done singing and the dew has dried from the leaves. We notice that our day is half over. The fire's embers are smoldering low, kept up to keep the late spring temperatures at bay. Well-loved hides wrap the chairs that have watched generations while books of aging cellulose and lignin breathe time. The breeze sneaks in under the old oak door stirring yesterday's fresh picked flowers, relaxing in their vase and whispering faintly but brightly as you pass. The tea kettle hisses and reminds us that we have floated off in a day dream and brings us back home.
Photo courtesy of Bill Phelps Photography