Solstice

I wish you could've been out on the deck with me yesterday afternoon. The last days of spring's dampness chased away by bright sun and blue skies. Before me was the stage of the backyard, birds singing back and forth into the wings of the other yards, traffic noise a distant hum, the neighbor dogs silent for once, blessedly silent, bugs humming with the traffic, the Japanese beetles slowly filling their green and black spotted bodies with petals from my beautiful dahlias. But I was on the deck at the foot of the hill. Perhaps I was the character, on stage in the amphitheater for the pleasure of the flora and fauna, observing my Noh-like stillness.

And I wish you could be out on the deck with me now. The sun rises behind the hill, setting the fog that crowns the hill aglow all along the ridge-line and silhouetting the bones of the oak tree, lighting the tips of the shoulder-high grasses just beyond the fence. Once again the dogs are blessedly silent, there's just the heckle of birds going about their flying and perching business, outdoor furniture set pieces awaiting their actors, the hissing hum of water shooting through the hoses to the roots of the lemon tree, iris, sweet peas, stunted lettuce that I planted in the wrong spot. Veronica is a cameo player in this morning's tableau vivant, choosing the elegant and understated role of Napping Cat on Lap. Ah. There. Coy has begun his chorus of the Howling Damned Dog. The peacock screams. The Garbage Truck makes its entrance. Today is afoot.

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What essential item will I leave behind when we depart for Weddingville this morning? The gown? My wedding binder? I would like to leave behind my desire to check my work email, but I don't think I'll manage that one.