Morning Sun

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Alone, I am tranquil
Beneath oak trees illuminated
With morning light

Deer step carefully across my path
Seeking tender blades of grass
Brought up by the storms

Birds chirp from high branches
Out of sight, out of reach
Free to sing their own song

Here I rest on this wooden bench
Unfettered for a short time
Free to write my own story

Ballerina Scientist

Phoebe spotted a mossy branch the other day and pointed it out.

“Yeah,” I said, “You can take that home and examine it with your magnifying glass.”

“What does ‘examine’ mean?” she asked.

“To look closely and make observations.  You know what observations are,” I replied.  “You’re learning a lot of scientific terms.”

“That’s because I am a scientist,” she asserted.  “I’m a ballerina scientist.  Do you know what ballerina scientists do?”

“No, what do they do?”

“They dance all around through the forest and when they spot something interesting, they stop and take it home and observe it.  They do that again and again and again.  That’s what they do.”

The fog

The fog.  The wet trees dripping water down the backs of our shirts as we walk.
The library.   Print this. ..then this… read by next week.
The preschool.   The bustling, loud,  sweet children.     The director.   My schedule.   Encouragement.
My child!
The grocery store.
The Christmas lights at the houses of the rich.
Pie.