Usually, before the alarm, the cooing of pigeons wakes me. I appreciate their soft murmur prodding me into consciousness. By the time I shower, and make coffee the day feels almost complete in its beginning, but my final act, cup in hand is to open the kitchen window. I tell myself it is to check the weather, but really it is just a way to let the outside world mend its way to me before the door.
So today my window tells me it is raining. The moss growing on the red tile looks greener. The square, rectangle, and arch of the neighboring windows look honestly irregular in their random patchwork. Rain means it is warmer — those clouds holding heat in. Funny how it cools in the summer—it does so much. What the window does not say, but I should have known, is what else the day would bring — news of death, news of life — and from this distance, all I can do is write. A reaction of words only. And so I do. The large cycle continues and a small day starts.
To the composer celebrating another year lived, relish whatever this day brings. Make it honest and yours. And to friends in grief and joy, all my love.