My head still aches and my in-box overfloweth, but it's 73 degrees here: warm enough for short sleeves and short skirts, but not yet mosquito season. The chives have poked back out just enough to clip a scattering for lunch. There's a breeze carrying the indistinct roar of children on the playground and the rumble of passing traffic; it's gently ruffling the branches of the holly and the vines on the hackberry. The dog joyfully barreled past me to gallop up and down the yard, but now she's back in the kitchen, contentedly munching on her kibble.
All's not right with the world by any means, but this -- this is still a gift beyond measure.
All's not right with the world by any means, but this -- this is still a gift beyond measure.