The coffee this morning tastes strong and green, like the summer day. Bright like the sun when it’s rising, still white in the early day sky. The heat is already hanging in my hair, my head, the leaves. Sweat covers everything that dares to step out into this new, new day; it mingles with the dew to coat everything with its tiny droplets, perfect clear circles of moisture; tokens of relief in the white hot sunlight.
The Bookstore porch is quiet this morning, too early for our regulars yet. It gives me a chance to sit and watch as the day opens up. There is a time in the mornings that has been the same forever. No matter what, nothing changes it. It is that time when the night closes its shades on the deeds done in the darkness, and the sun begins stretching and reaching and cutting through the darkness to bring the world back into focus again. Another twelve hours for a chance at living.