Frisco, CO. Eight a.m.
Lounging on the bench-swing in the lawn. Surrounded by dandelions. The dog, Sugar, being dog-like, sniffing around, investigating the morning scents, then choosing a cozy spot in a warm patch of sunlight on a lush patch of grass to lie down; the prominence of the fast-running river only a stone’s throw from here very nearly the only audible sound, white noise maintaining a backdrop for the bursts of birdsong flushing through the aspens and pines, and the sun filtering through just beginning to stab my eyes with its pointed glare. The slight sound of slightest traffic thin and fringy, and thankfully, easy to ignore.

I just finished drinking an exquisite cup of an Ethiopian Kochere—citric, floral with a bright, lively, happy acidity that dazzles the tongue much like the early morning sun might one’s eyes, or the song of the birds one’s ears. There is no better start to a day than this little ritual of mine.

I’m noticing now how in the shaded parts of the lawn the dandelions are closed up tight, like they might be cold, and so each of them has snugged up his and her sepals tight around their blossoms like I might zip the collar of a warm jacket up tight. I would also be remiss not to mention how much like aristocrats from the sixteenth century they look like, albeit headless ones, with their broad collars peaking out the tops of their shirt and jacket. A particular painting by El Greco which hangs in the Prado in Madrid titled The Nobleman with his Hand on his Chest comes to mind.

In places where broad swaths of sunlight paint the ground these dandelions’ heads are thrown back, petals fully extended like mouths wide open stretched to their limits, swallowing whole all that pours forth from the sky. How strange that I’ve never noticed this phenomena before! How intelligent the world is! Is there anything that looks happier, more full of joy, than a flower opened up completely? It is like a human soul who has become so accepting to everyone and everything, all experience, good or ill, that it matters not what might become of it, that it might be destroyed means nothing, but that it continue in its course, which is always the correct course, and finds satisfaction in that.

A White-crowned Sparrow is flitting about the yard, sounding out its presence from perch to perch like a submarine’s radar keeping time with whatever metronome guides it.