This is it: another day unbuttons her coat.
I like being outside at my desk in the still dusky dark early morning.
It was 6:34 when I sat outside this morning. I heard a rooster crow. The air was nippy, just slightly. My neighbor's pick up truck's headlights shined on me as I wrote.
My eyes listened, briefly, before the driver of the truck noticed me recording life as another day opened itself.
I heard a train in the distance, a freight train from the sound of it.
Someplace inside my phone sits with unanswered text messages. Samuel is sleeping, waiting for his morning rousing. The time change is still hanging heavy on his eyelids. I hear the birds check in with each other with their throaty, unkempt morning songs.
My purple inked pen floats across the page, contentedly collecting images.
Constance-the-Cat sits on the arm of the strangely placed living room style chair that graces my porch.
She and I both notice as the sun rises higher to just above the cloud bank which is reminiscent of a marine layer though it would need to travel awfully far East to get to any marine land from here in Bakersfield. I am almost invisible on my porch perch as I watch my neighbor's begin to take their daily sojourns out of our neighborhood. The wind chime waves goodbye, cheerfully. Frowns cover eye brows, coffee cups sit in bent hands, cell phones burp the arrival of another text message.
This is it: another day, unbuttoning her coat.
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