August 4, 2026

6:55 am

I am sitting by the window,

Ajar and flooding

into my room

that crisp, rocky mountain air,

birdsong and crickets

and rabbits and black squirrels,

a caw and a crow and a rustle in the bush.

Pink sky canvas,

brush strokes like watercolour saturate the world

beyond the dull pines dressed in Pike's shadow.

First light came early,

Yet still the sun has not shown her face.

I am grateful to be here:

At a cabin

in the wood,

Tasting the early morning,

Listening for the world.

It is August and the fog settles on the hilltops

like a blanket for their rigid shoulders.

Morning chill arouses my flesh,

hairs dancing on the arm,

steam rising from the cup.

Dewy droplets sparkle in the teasing rays of sky fire.

Every breath rejuvenates my sleeping body,

Every glance inspires my eyes.

I am sitting by the open window

breathing and listening.

I am wasting the morning and watching as the day ripens like a peach:

Soft and yellow,

sweet and wet.

It is well past 7 and my face is dripping with desire.

Desire to stay.

To devour this delicious August morning.

To be here,

in this finite moment,

Infinitely.

I am writing this down and hoping to capture time.

That I may revisit this morning,

the mountains,

this moment.

That I may be here,

That I may know it

forever.