A spring breeze rustles the trees
shooshes across my neck
as a solitary songbird
dee-da-das from afar.
The sun pokes a morning face through tree limbs,
breathing hello at me
just as my old dog did minutes ago,
filling my nostrils
with her warm doggy scent,
the universe’s most gentle wake-up call.

I watch the nascent sun trace
the dune’s ridge westward
and up
toward day,
headed for the lake
and the beach
where it will take the same morning walk
the dog and I will follow in an hour.

A lone blue jay slips past me
and slides up to land silently
on a swaying branch,
unusually hushed,
serene, none of the quarrelsome whistles
it so often offers.

This place,
where I spend perhaps three,
perhaps six, mornings each year,
steam rising from my teacup and snaking toward the sky
as I listen for the rustle of leaves and fawns,
the singsong of birds.
I would stay here forever
were I able to throw aside
civilization’s demands,
worry not for money
nor food.

This place,
where my first dog lies beneath a tree
at the top of the path
outside the front door,
calling to me when I pass her
wishing we could play one more game of fetch,
cuddle once more
in the weather-worn Adirondack.

This place.
This day.
This moment.