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This is my favorite
morning of the week.
I am up by 4:30,
not wanting to miss
even a moment
of this dark quiet.
I make coffee from
beans that have come
halfway across the world,
to be ground in the
little black machine
that now whirs away
on the kitchen counter.
The water heats,
while I eagerly
await the first sip
of that dark pleasure.
The dog snores loudly,
as I water and feed the
houseplants, moving
slowly from one
plant to the next.
The geraniums are
blooming again;
a raucous happy pink.
One of the ferns
is looking peaked.
I move on to the
fancy begonias.
Their burgundy and
silver leaves shine
in the lamplight.
Corelli joins me
this happy morning.
The notes dance
across the windowsills
and leap to touch
the far corners
of every room.
A new rooster
has moved into
the neighborhood.
He keeps me company.
His joyful crowing
suggests that he enjoys
Saturday mornings
almost as much as I do.
I would invite him
over for coffee,
but I feel sure that
he is busy, valiantly
guarding his harem.
The sun is beginning
to show itself.
It is a burning slit
of light on the horizon.
This morning, the rooster
and I are one.
We are part of the
brotherhood of early risers.
J.C.W.
