I hear the light grey skies before I see them, a certain shift in mood, in atmosphere, an almost heaviness waiting outside the windows. Pulling back linen, light dances in, good morning, shining through every part of me, filling the room, changing, wake up, the day is here.
I push open the windows and listen. Breeze, wind, cool, that Sunday morning smell, waiting and expectation and fields and newness in a familiar world. Where has this breeze been, what does it carry, who has it seen? Morsels, memories, experience, whirling through the gap between glass, flooding into my being, part of me, fuelling and balancing. I close my eyes and breathe deep, this life giver, this essence. Cool on my face, whisping on my skin.
The breeze brings the sounds of early morning, birds, high pitched, melodious, answering calls from afar away down the valley. Like an echo, a wall of birdsong rises, falls, louder, softer, continuous and magical.
Leaves and branches sway, sliding against each other, wood and bark and tentative shoots of green, cautiously unfurling to the daylight, collecting invisible rays through these skies, feeding and growing.
Collective breaths behind me, a pile of duvet, a man dreams, slow, steady quietness. Regular breaths. A cat curls into the nook behind the man’s knees, circular, warm. Ears twitch this way and that. Eyes closed.
Here’s to this new day.