A New England morning

I am up early, unable to sleep from the remnants of an overnight migraine. I make coffee, feed the cat, pour the coffee, let the cat out the back door and retire to the rocking chair on the front porch.

Here in New England the morning breaks cool under a cloud speckled sky. A slight breeze stirs the leaves on the wisteria that has wrapped its runners around the balustrade and posts on the porch.

On one of the bare branches of an old maple across the street five blackbirds perch, occasionally jostling one another, like patrons shifting on stools at a lunch counter.

The front yard is a sea of color: tall-stemmed tiny deep red flowers hover above a bed of yellow evening primrose. The wild rose on the arched trellis at the end of the walk is approaching full bloom. The bees are busy among the blossoms.

High in one of the neighbor’s white pines a grey squirrel chatters; bluejays perched nearby taunt their retorts. Across the street a chipmunk emerges from the bushes, pauses to make a quick calculation, then darts across the open yard—tiny tail upright, a small cinnamon streak.

The cat pads up the front steps and sits to lick a paw. She settles momentarily to survey the yard, eyeing the bees among the flowers. Off to the left the gravelly drivel of a chipping sparrow bleeds through the cool morning air.

Quietly, I sit and sip my coffee, observing this microcosm of the cosmos at my doorstep. I doubt that I have ever been more alive than at this moment.

The cat, the coolness, the clear calls of birds in the morning—together they spawn moments of peaceful delight.

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