And, a wooden bench made for watching the river flow from beneath the trees.

Charlie doesn't wait for the alarm; he is the alarm, he stands by my sleeping head and stares. Whimpers, enough to be heard, not enough to be scolded. He needs someone to get his breakfast and put on her shorts and shoes and go out into this spectacular morning with him. That someone is me. 

After running, then walking, by the river's edge I see what I have never seen before: first, a glittering web, new this day, hanging in front of the view over the Charles. And, a wooden bench made for watching the river flow from beneath the trees.

Late in the afternoon I make some more tweaks to my hybrid, prose poem, Lake of Laurel and Ash, to bring to my poetry group, where, tonight, it's appreciated, it's praised, it's so well received. It needs something, still, and it's not clear what I'll do to resolve one feature, if anything, but I'm enjoying this little miracle of creation, of finding my way in yesterday by sitting down with it, and staying with it, and not running away with doubt, but trusting it deserved my attention.

The windows are open tonight to the cooler evening, the crickets chirp and the gang of coyotes are yipping and howling at the edge of the woods.

In my yard, this white hydrangea shrub blooms, six seasons later, more spectacularly each year, a gift from my younger brother to my husband and me on our 25th wedding anniversary.

All photos and text ©Kelly DuMar 2018