Sunday mornings, very early before the sun is more than a line of fire on the horizon, are the best moments for silence in the city. Construction has halted, traffic has not started, the family still sleeps, and only the birds join my dogs and me in a sort of communion.
A gentle breeze stirs the leaves on my ash tree. The new growth shows a lighter, more intense green than the older established leaves. I placed a sprinkler under the drip line yesterday evening and have it trickling slowly so the water soaks down where the tree can get it. Small birds will perch on the sprinkler head and grab drops of water as they leak out the holes. A bigger black bird hops around my big dog’s breakfast scraps in the yard. I think Bill deliberately leaves some on the plate just for this reason. He is inordinately kind to birds. He watches patiently as they sit on the rim of his outside water dish for a quick drink.
This is the jewel of my week. This is what I wait for. This is the illusion of peace that I must make into the real thing if I am to survive. Last night’s dreams haunt my thoughts and I push them away. I don’t want anything to destroy this tiny bit of magic. Reality comes too swift and too hard and too soon.