A free woman’s nonchalance about the clouds. “They’ll move, she says.”
Blueberry pie for breakfast, mounds of coffee grounds on the counter. Morning light belongs in the kitchen.
I hope the sunflower has her children here in my pasture.
A sticker on my cheek planted by little Liv, a girl I met today who is no stranger to me.
The just-right pen surfing across the page.
Third Sunday in August many hummingbirds feed on one zinnia.
Misty mountains in the morning, driving to the shore. Home is the feeling where magic resides.
Sapphire chickadee arches his back against the thunderstorm.

Gathering glimmers is a practice that invites reciprocity with joy.

Eyes of the knotty pine witness our indoor life: un-grand on purpose.
Wafting through open windows late summer squeals of kiddos who pay no mind to warm winds’ retreat.
Cotton dances in through the bookshop’s doorway dusting the fingertip of a woman bending to feel it.
The sun smiles on the pasture banishing the muzzle of night. Have you ever seen the sun frown?
I wake in the morning and make no noise. By afternoon, my own yawn startles me.
A morning prayer: Thank you for this body that moves, this heart that’s open, this mind that seeks peace. May they find their way to each other, to wholeness.
This morning, a choir of Canadian geese travels across summit’s lake. Not knowing if they sing upon arrival or departure. How could I?
Thanksgiving Eve, kids and their cousins, a dog scouting crumbs, my love plays a full-bodied guitar.

He in the window seat, me in the aisle, holding hands across the vacant middle.
Writing by hand, watching the world slow down around me.
Street sign: pass with care & how we must obey.
The persimmon, noble, unsweet beacon of California winter, falling like snow from the trees.
Gravy, the texture of velvet, the taste of umami Earth, blankets the plate.
Paper flowers crumpled underfoot bleed into the sidewalk, their magenta liquid souls.
Experiment with gratitude. Soon I can walk again, sit back into child’s pose, scrub mildew in the shower.
Straps of the face mask scrunch his ears into charming chanterelles.

To which I’ll answer “everywhere”