Not quite six o’clock in the morning and the world on my street is still. A rooster crows, fog rolls in. No one drives by. It is so silent I hear my espresso bubbling on the stove.
Yesterday, I sat on my back porch with a book. Today, I’ll do it again, drinking in the near-summer air in the moments before my toddler awakens.
I hold this moment, in which nothing is urgent.
Geese. Morning doves. New green leaves, fluttering so slightly; the neighbor’s cat dropping down from the fence to say hello. Water, dripping onto lower landings from the higher places where they, ever so briefly, perch.
The Wandering Introvert 