The sun, the early September sun, hit goldenrod in the backyard field in a brilliance that colored the morning in burnished gold. And again, I was thankful for being in this place at this time.
Earlier, in the dusky hour before sunrise, I ventured out onto the back porch to check for evidence of overnight rain. Me, in my hideous bathrobe, my feet bare, treading across the boards I painted last summer, to the porch's edge where steps descend to a flagstone path. Only dew, the sky that dark rose color, and between the trees, a bright morning star blinked at me. I stood quietly and stretched, breathing the dampness, feeling the stillness. Breathe, remember to breathe. The day before me, goals set to accomplish, the coffee brewing in the kitchen inside, the man still abed upstairs.
And a truck, first in the distance, the sound carrying in the still morning. I tracked its progress across the flat, past the house where a Confederate flag has lately joined the Don't Tread on Me banner and the dueling pistols in the yard. Then up the hill known to the old-timers as Scott Hill, its light breaking at the top before gathering speed as it rumbled past, scattering leaves already fallen.
Another post generated in a 10-minute writing exercise with an online writing group on Thursday, a day of sunshine unlike today's gloominess. The group leader tasked us with writing a list of topics we wanted to explore that morning. I settled on this.
3 comments:
I can feel your morning experience and see the goldenrod and leaves. Such a lovely description tarnished by a neighbor with frightening beliefs.
The imagery in this post is lush, colorful and moving. You are not writing news-print in this post.
Unfinished. What of the truck? It now disappears in light and leaves. Strained metaphor.
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