Morning

My eyes are steadied by the overhead fan.  The dark blades circle in play about the white ceiling.   I curve my body and pull the covers close.  I am cold, but I like the lulling fan.  

The birds are in the tree again and just outside my window.  The tree is inhabited by their melodic shrills and staccato, high-pitched bleats.  I slightly turn my head towards them – unable to resist or to understand.  Their call and response reminds me of a good Sunday morning sermon. 

My airy white room is made brighter still by the sun.  The lightness of the room is grounded by a few pieces of heavy furniture.  The walls are empty except for a gift from years ago.  Behind a dark frame and glass, is the sparse arrangement of curved wood elements.  A woman is praying.  

Lightly, almost magically, it begins to rain.  The rain thumps against the leaves of the big tree.  The birds have quieted.  There is a silence that I adore.

Always, there are things to do.  But, I look to the praying woman across from me and feel the fan above me.  I stretch and curl back up.  I rest again to ease into a new day.

From my morning walk in San Juan, PR - September 2009