Beauty in the Breakdown

Each morning, something new.

It could be the force of the rain obliterating the view ahead of me, the mad rush of tires and brake lights… or the more mundane beauty of sunrise.

Gray clouds, orange sun.
Woman walking with an umbrella and green gumboots.
Children huddled under a tree almost as big as them.
The flashing ruby red of the train crossing.
New calves, shocking black and white against the drab grey of a barn.
Pink sky, blue mountains.
Streaming fog curling over a hip of mountain, a cigarette of smoke against a lovers skin.
Filtering light through the skeleton of a tree, casting beams of it’s branches on the morning commuters.
Red car, blue car, black car, silver car, navy and gray, tan and green. Each holding in it’s own story, encasing private thoughts and morning mayhem. I had cheerios. What did you have?
Fresh snow on the flanks of Mount Cheam.
Sweet, hot morning coffee. (Not too sweet, never too hot.)
Thirty minutes to observe the world, without it knowing.

As always, there is something beautiful.

I stepped out of my stuffy office building to discover a spring wind, warm and perfumed with danger. If I still had hair to let down, I would have. To whip around my face and flirt with the wind. This is running wind. Pushing you harder, further, faster. This is spring, daffodils are on the way… crocus… lake walks and summer plans.

We have survived the worst of it. Now only the rain to wash away the dull film of sleep from its eyes.

Crocuses. Snowdrops. Tulips.

Lilacs.

God, I may burst.

G.