TUESDAY MORNING, 6AM

Cool. Autumn closing in. The dawn breaks golden on the treetops. Sparrows in flight, their flocks dip before they soar. Taste of silence. Taste of fullness.

Garbage truck passing through. The street is waking up. Work. I sip my coffee and check my to do list. Banking, bills. Legal, medical. Shove it aside and go to the beach?

It has been said that consciousness is intentional, relational, a stream. Now, surveying the street from my balcony there is no intention, no relation, just the hilltop and the enveloping space. Majestic. Fullness.

A feeling, just a feeling. Can’t hold on to it. The list bubbles up in my stream even through the squirrels race along the telephone lines and the birds chirp.

The garbage truck is now passing on the other side. The ancient bald guy is working the back of the truck alone again, moving like a teenager, putting me to shame.

Time to get moving. The coffee is finished. Time to protect my little piece of earth.

 

 

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