Oh the softness of Sundays.
Summer is here. It’s got the scent and feel of alpine air, fresh and cool with a slight breeze and an echo.
The birds are squawking, the crows with their nasal caw, and others, tittering a staccato rejoinder.
The sound of a lawnmower is accompanied by the occasional shushing of cars and the tinny growl of small engine planes.
If my blind was pulled open, I could tell you whether the sun, which has been bashfully covering itself with clouds, was making an appearance today.
But I’m still laying here, wrapped in warm blankets and feeling the cool air stream over my arms as I write, not quite ready to rouse myself from this warm little haven, but considering it seriously, since breakfast must be made and served, and another day greeted with gratitude.
And the dishes await washing.