Morning eyes opened when ready, mind recalling a dissipating dream state: sometimes a scene from a social gathering, a composite of many such real scenes, former work colleagues from different times all in the same dream space. Unfinished business? Unresolved issues? Or no meaning whatsoever.
Window blinds opened for a sense of the day’s weather. Wash up and climb down the stairs. Coffee outside on the deck for a while to feel the morning breezes; listen to the neighborhood sounds of people beginning their days; take note of the late spring bird community, the reliable members as they appear on the scene: house sparrow, house wren, Carolina wren, house finch, American goldfinch, northern cardinal, American robin, American crow, blue jay, European starling, common grackle, mourning dove, chimney swift, ruby-throated hummingbird, gray catbird, chipping sparrow, brown-headed cowbird, eastern phoebe, eastern wood-pewee, great crested flycatcher, turkey vulture, Cooper’s hawk, downy woodpecker, red-bellied woodpecker, white-breasted nuthatch, black-capped chickadee, cedar waxwing.
Breakfast. Could be scrambled eggs, Cream of Wheat, polenta, grits, bagel and a banana, cereal, or oat meal. My wife and I share our dreams. Later, upstairs with the acoustic guitar: “Born in Chicago,” “How Lucky,” “Brand New Good Old Days,” “It Sure Can Get Cold in Des Moines,” “Good To Be,” “Little Bird in Heaven,” “Monday Morning Blues.”
Before the day is hot, bicycle the usual route at Compton Park along Killjordan Creek; through the northeast part of town, where, before the civil rights era, Black residents of Macomb were once restricted to make their homes; down Dr. C.T. Vivian Way and Randolph Street; through Chandler Park, the town square, and back home.
The last morning hour: read, check e-mail, and back to reading.
Lunchtime sandwiches online from Jimmy John’s and out to Argyle Lake State Park to a specific picnic table. Over the lake, we’ll look for a belted kingfisher, red-shouldered hawk, bald eagle, great blue heron, green heron, or northern rough-winged swallow. We’ll follow the park road, through dense forests and ravines, around the lake, then county highways through an intensively farmed landscape to Lakeview Nature Area and our honeybee hive.
Back home. More reading, maybe some writing: an essay for the blog, short story, or the novel-in-progress. Read until consciousness begins to fade in a natural way; eyes heavy, heavier…and out for around thirty minutes or more.
Awaken at some point for weight training and exercise with music for the better part of an hour; these days it might be Stillhouse Junkies, Rory Block, The John Byrne Band, John Gorka, Rum Ragged, Kate Rusby, or Antje Duvekot.
Sit out back under the beautiful Bradford pear tree before dinner. Gray squirrels crossing over the yard on electric wires; a bullfrog in the pond; busy adult birds feeding young; a barred owl calling; cottontail rabbits, their superfast young zooming around foraging on our costly horticultural plants. Rabbits would be everywhere, eating everything were it not for predation, the owl’s role. Animals must eat. And it’s dinnertime, our day’s largest meal, followed by short episodes of an older television show, from a time when the bar on grossness and offensiveness was much higher.
Catch up on the day’s news items: progress toward another Moon landing, International Space Station, wars, civil strife, our porous southern border, wasting the taxpayer’s money, North Korean sabre rattling with missile launches and nuclear explosions, economic sanctions, terrorism, genocide, mass shootings, refugee camps and famine, oppression, hostage taking, criminals and lunatics in high places, COVID down but not out, bridge and road collapses, natural disasters, and the usual climate change mantra wherever it can be squeezed into a story. Music is better: Greg Maroney piano with cello, solo piano playlist.
And finally, sleep again. A full day; a full, good life. Fortunate to be where we are, my wife and I.