At four, a trace of pink below a mound of countless shades of dark.
At six, morning fog has risen like a lord, flaunting abundance on this modest plot of earth.
Tomatoes, cilantro, bok choy, thyme and collards in beds on the porch awaken to their daily water.
Glass hummingbird hangs from a string against the glass.
Quick hummingbird touches down, hovers, nectars at the feeder, flickers away.
Birds, polite or quarrelsome, vie for a perch at their seed.
Light wind today, glistening bay, glimpse of Mt Baker to the East.
Fat jade plant sunning at the window like a Buddha.
Coffee cup, stapler, daisies, composition book open to a fresh page.
Eight distinct bird calls, soft wind chimes, and three gas mowers are the morning sounds.
Bo cries to go outside, agrees finally to chase toy instead of bird.
Three loads of laundry and three hairballs removed.
The very wonder of it all, as if all is well.
As if all is well.
As if.

Time for writing now.
Time for writing.
Time.