Morning is my time, and when the weather is pleasant there’s no place I’d rather greet the day than the porch. I have my reader and coffee, but before beginning to read I take in familiar sights.
There’s the plant still holding on to its blood red blooms sitting close to Bee Lady, a clay sculpture given me one birthday by a daughter.
Outside the screen are gardenias filling the air with sweet perfume. Their blooms will soon be gone leaving behind only a memory of their fragrance.
Close by the fountain trickles softly. I can count on a blue jay or a mourning dove making a quick stop for a drink of water and then being on its way.
Some mornings a robin is having a breakfast of berries carefully collected from the leather holly.
I glance over to the patio to make sure the plants there are OK and not in need of water.
Always the scene is changing as blooms come and go, new growth waits to receive energy from the sun that is still hiding. One thing that stays the same is the quiet of early morning interrupted only by bird sounds.
Maizy joins me, closes her eyes and breathes quietly as if understanding the meaning of morning. Is it any wonder that morning on the porch is my time?