misty

There’s the faintest of droplets spritzing from above. It’s a moody misty morning and I’m happy as a lark about it. The cooler the temps, the warmer my heart. 

A garden spider spun a doily in the picture window as if it had intended on captivating us. It looks like a swath of beaded lace with the collected raindrops. The youngest children perched on the window seat and marveled while enjoying their Saturday donuts. I watched it all from outside as I pulled vines with one hand and drank hot coffee with the other.

Goldfinches are still gleaning. They are well fed this time of year but I can sense a shift in their foraging—less play and more business. I reckon their internal clocks are alerting them the time to gather is growing shorter. 

The moisture has pooled perfectly over every uncovered thing. This is the season of browning and bowing for much of the garden. Most of what started as seed is returning to seed. I pinch open dry pods and either collect or scatter onto surrounding soil. 

I’m real curious about seeds. I examine nearly every flower and fruit in hopes to discover its beginning. I want to understand how things grow. How does one thing become another? How does something so minuscule transform into something so mighty? It never ceases to amaze me.

The husband played me a sappy song this dreary morning that ended up playing me. I think he’d give me the world, with every whimsical fancy I’ve ever had, if I asked for it. He’s an understated madman, I tell you. I never knew how much so until we both went a little crazy. I feel perfectly normal this melancholy morning and within these melodramatic musings. I’m perfectly OK today, and that’s quite enough.