Morning

There’s fog everywhere. The sky is a luminous shade of white which seeps down on over the tops of the trees. Everything is soaked except for areas with a roof over them. From my porch I look out into the forest clearing next door and it looks like jungle. The air is thick, heavy, humid and warm enough to be jacketless but not unbearably hot. I hear the sounds of isolated birds, both nearby and farther away, making their morning calls.

My former self would once have whined, “It’s so humid! My hair will frizz!” But I let my hair go native long ago so it doesn’t matter now. I go inside. Time to make breakfast.