Sipping warm coffee while writing, sometimes about nothing in particular, and listening to Ani DiFranco. These are the kinds of mornings I love. If the deck wasn't wet from last night's rain, I would be on the chaise lounge with a thick blanket watching today's sun gleam through the flaming leaves. Instead I settle for the view from my room upstairs, the ambers and greens of trees swaying with the hour shift into afternoon.
In the Fall I shed. I molt. I slip off what has been and wait for an untouched me.
