Morning walk paints a picture
It was one of those mornings when the world wakens glad to be itself. The morning air was cool and welcome after a night of humidity and high temperatures that lingered long into the night. High in the top of the evergreen tree, a cardinal belted out a territorial 'what cheer, what cheer" chirping while his mate below stuffed twigs into a nest tucked in a lower limb.
My morning walk takes me past a small garden, hand dug, raked and planted by a woman whose mother and mine were good friends. I watch the plot of dirt transform into an Andrew Wyeth painting of green stalks, bulging with flower bulbs and vegetable seeds that will soon burst into a banquet table of splendid colors.
The garden picture is framed to the east by a low, stone wall, like the one where Charles made his terrifying, wonderful discoveries in "A Wrinkle in Time." To the north by a row boat tip on its side, to the south by a green border and to the west by open spaces.
There are tools lying about; a bench under a tree that beckons its owner to take respite there and a shovel leaning casually upon a wheelbarrow, waiting for its owner to return.
They will work in tandem, these tools and this gardener, to eek from a small plot of brown dirt new life.
My walk takes me about town where a man is out early washing his car; we talk briefly about the young trees he has planted, flowering pears that boast sweet, white blossoms in early spring. Now the tiny limbs sprout shiny green leaves that soak in the sunlight.
There is a cat lying under the sign of her owner's shop, lolling about as though she has nothing better to do, which she doesn't because that's what cats do. I am not a cat person but this particular cat, the size and shape of a small fox, hence her name, has taken up residence in my anticipations as I walk the route where she lives.
Two boys skitter about on tiny bicycles. "Here," he calls, "watch me." He gives the bike a push, clambers up on the cross bar and sales, willy-nilly down the street. His friend, not to be outdone has a trick of his own - a one-footed balance act that nearly upends him.
On a tiny limb of a decaying tree is another cat, kitten really, stretched out; nearby a small bird-finch maybe, chirps away unaware of the danger lurking nearby. The bird does not know and the kitten has not yet learned that they are archenemies, today exist peacefully side by side on the limb of a tree once abundant with life, now dead and purposeless except to be a resting place for a young kitten and a small bird.
The world wakens this day, glad to be itself.