This morning I opened the patio door, as I often do first thing in the morning to test the weather. It’s been raining since yesterday afternoon, but that was taking a pause for the moment.
I like to inhale the morning air in the quiet space just around dawn. This morning it was like damp earth, wet wood from the deck, and a hint of autumn breeze, mingled with the coffee I had just brewed.
This time of day is when the birds are most active, and one of my guilty pleasures is to just stand and listen for a few moments, eyes closed, and drift back to days spent out in the woods of Northwestern Ontario with my dad trying to name each bird by its song:
Chickadee.
Robin.
Blue Jay.
Oriole.
Mourning Dove.
Cardinal.
Goldfinch.
House Wren.
All of this song and fuss was punctuated by an occasional “plink” of a stray raindrop on the metal patio table, and grounded in the bass by a low roll of thunder somewhere off in the distance, reminding me that this weather is destined to settle in for a good piece of the morning.
I slid the door only half closed so any splash from the next rain shower didn’t find its way in through the screen, and sat down with my coffee to write. It’s market day, and it’s preparation day for the week ahead. Things are going to get busy soon enough. But here on a Sunday morning, settled in the month between summer and fall, and settled in the moments between sleep and hustle, I’m perfectly content to spend some time doing nothing.
Just smelling the wet earth, listening to the birds, and thinking about being in the woods with my dad.