A cloud drifts in front of the morning sun, deadens its glare and warmth. I stopped trying to count how many colors I see. I ran out of names for them. With the shifting light everything changes, always. This reddish-brown decking is different today, in this light, which is only happening now.

The air is soaked with the ancient smell of rain and far away dust. Someone writes a letter to a person they miss. At a churchyard, a couple exchanges vows. A recent grad buys shirts for their first day of work. This ancient air smells of fresh rain and far away dust.

Light breeze and sunshine – the kind they call wall to wall. Light breeze and sunshine – it’s spring, it’s not fall. It’s a rhyming and playful type of day, a rhyming and playful type of May. The songbirds are singing the wind chimes are ringing… screw you, I’m not finishing on a rhyme.

Morning chill and light frost bestill the air and grass. It’s the type of dawn one might call unseasonably cool. Inside, two tomatoes the size of tiny fists ripen on the counter next to a hunk of bread in a paper bag. The dishes dry on the rack next to the sink.

The old man on the porch calls out to the couple walking behind me, “hey, are you two married?” The young woman responds with enthusiasm – “We’re engaged!” She shares this as though it’s a recent development. Momentarily, her joy pulls out my crankiness and brooding.  Though not enough to appreciate the sunshine.

I stare at the dining room table and the mess that is my scattered energies: two stacks of documents that need to be sort, bank checks from an account I closed, several books of poetry and a notebook, a book a friend shared with me, an external drive, paintbrushes, plants, breakfast plate.

Aside from a few birds singing and chatting with the most urgent news, evening does what evening does… falls, descends, envelops, arrives without fanfare. There are no spectacular gradations of lights. It just becomes dark and the houselights go on – kitchen, living room, bedroom. It’s all quite unremarkable. Don’t tell the birds.

The kitchen smells of onions, garlic, bacon, and collards cookin’ on the stove. The rest of the house is wood-smoke and barbecue. Mesquite and hickory seeps in every open window. The dog doesn’t understand dance parties in the kitchen or the simple pleasure of a beer on a lazy back porch Sunday.

When it rains, it’ll be the type of rain that begins slowly and lightly and eases into steadiness. These aren’t the clouds of deluge. These aren’t the advancing thunderheads from which birds will flee. A house wren sings in a nearby pine. A line of shrubs bloom fuchsia in the graying dawn.