I love mornings. Especially mornings when I wake up surrounded by the lush green of nature. How often do I get to sit quietly with a cup of coffee and look at the humid and cloudy sky, content to relax and wait for the rain? How often am I far away enough from the expectations of others, the expectations of myself, to breathe in the nothingness of what I have to do, should do, must do?
A white fence, graying with age, sagging toward the damp earth. Horses used to stand here, idly picking at the green, green grass and the hay grown and baled across the street.
Now the fields are overgrown and used for looking, not for riding. They melt into the wooded valley, buzzing with fat mosquitoes and gleaming webs.
A stream that stinks tumbles weakly between the muddy rocks.
I find that it is two in the afternoon and I have accomplished nothing and gained everything.