The day is deliciously warm. Summer has come, at least for today.
“Glasses and milk…” mom calls out. No time for showing things on the phone. “We’re also missing plates!”
It’s one of those skies, blue and nearly clear of clouds, stratus and not much else. And the red tail hawk darts across the sky.
It’s a small three footed stand. Bent metal, maybe a quarter inch thick, and dipped in black. Some parts are flaking, chipping off. But a white pot sits a foot, if just a bit off.
The white is newer than the lot, but the delicate flowers that flow from the pot, violets with fingers that prop, flow and drop. They are the perfected images of spring.
In the background, my sugar pumpkin riles off scales, preparing for her audition. And then song.
And the sky turns soft. The heat of day is lost, as the splendor of day washes over me. It holds me gently, in it’s arms. The trees rest slow, not moving, but slow.
A few small finches chipper and turn, complaining about something I don’t understand. And so the world goes, awash, and as always stranger. And the birds chatter.
And ABBA spills all over my brain.