The trees sang this morning, a symphony after the long silence. I added my morning psalms. Let all the earth cry out to God with joy. A goldfinch flashed his coat in the sun while the catbird devoured his breakfast. The first few irises peeked open overnight, making the alleluias come easily this morning.
My tomatoes are in the ground, too, and marching along straight and tall this morning. It appears the peonies and rhododendron will open in a day or two. Besides all that it is warm at last after our cold, wet April. Perfect for sitting outside in peace.
When the mountain of sad stories threatens to overwhelm me, worries for those I love press in, and quarantine grates on my nerves, and when discouragement over my writing casts dark shadows, a morning like this lifts me up. I’m moving, Beloved had had breakfast, and our day has begun. On to my keyboard: the Wayward Son is on the home stretch and a short story for the Bluestocking Belles next collection is taking shape. But first, coffee.