It’s still 5:30

I turned off the water but it’s still running.

I slept-in til 5:30 this morning and went out to water the garden—it was dead quiet, though I did see a mama deer and her twins eating my russet tops. As they hopped away the silence remained in the most surreal artistry. “Must be the soft, thick grass,” I thought.

I sat quietly in sanctification—my stone table cool and covered in dew, the garden growing. All the sounds of summer sleeping, I close my eyes and drown my thoughts in the silence, then the silence drowns my thoughts. Purely, this was the most joyful quiet I could recall since my boreal beginnings. After a time (it felt) I lumbered my way to the house, made a cup of coffee and slipped out again to wait for the first rays of light to shine through the treetops.

Something is a little different. I begin to wonder at this timeless moment enduring a little longer—longer than I expected.

Skillfully I go back inside, quiet, careful not to wake the misses and and the mutt. The one clock is blinking—the other is not. It is still 5:30. I look out the window and the water is still running.

Cup Fungi

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