the sixth hour

Early morning mist, late evening fog. Precipitation in various forms, beading and billowing stirring up the scent of damp pine and dead leaves. I love the smell of trees; juniper, pine, cedar, redwoods. Slow mornings, unlocking my door and stepping out onto the red steps, feels like California... but here I am in the upper Midwest, home for now. Now and then. It feels good to wake up in my bed, to wake up on my sofa, to wake up on the ceiling. I feel that way sometimes. Lately I've struggled out of sleep and dreams. It takes me awhile to readjust to wakefulness, like eyes adjusting to darkness after staring at the sun. It's an odd feeling but generally passes once I pull off the covers, shuffle to the kitchen, feed my cat and crack two eggs in the little orange frying pan I keep on the stove. I enjoy mornings and late evenings. Afternoons are for the birds. I should live somewhere that carries on the tradition of siestas. Sleeping on the periphery of the sun is a love of mine... Sleeping in the afternoon, rain or shine seems necessary for the success and goodness of the human race. Let's all slow down and be quiet... hora sexta. okay?

*photo taken in 2001/Big Sur, CA