Sitting at the threshold of here and there
I sit on my front porch almost every morning, steaming coffee mug in hand. From this vantage point, I can watch coyotes scramble up the hillside–silhouettes that erupt from gauzy shadows, and then vanish in the dark. I hear songbirds, warbling their morning tunes in a nearby sycamore tree, and the whir-thump of the morning newspaper, out for delivery. Hummingbirds cross my field of vision, making territorial clicks as they dart between the window feeder and the fuchsia, a safe haven in which they build their nests.
The marine layer lifts. Wispy, cotton-candy clouds are set aglow by the sunrise. I breathe deep the cool morning air, eyes wide open so that I don’t miss a single, wondrous thing.
On the kitchen counter: my computer and daily to-do lists. But I pour myself one last cup of coffee, savor the last vestiges of dawn before heading inside. Routines can wait, I tell myself, and no real harm has ever come of sitting a while longer, at the threshold of here and there.