“There's sometimes a good hearty tree growin' right out of the bare rock, out o' some crack that just holds the roots', she went on to say, 'right on the pitch o' one o' them bare stony hills where you can't seem to see a wheelbarrowful o' good earth in a place, but that tree'll keep a green top in the driest summer. You lay your ear down to the ground an' you'll hear a little stream runnin'. Every such tree has got its own livin' spring; there's folks made to match 'em.”
― Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs

This is a hearty scene and soundscape to wake into. Blast of sunshine in my face from the window over the sea, and the rush shush shush of the surf, and the bark of Charleston looking for breakfast and loving voices Hmmm. We are all looking for breakfast and loving voices. After I take the dogs up the dirt road on a short walk, I return to drop off the dogs to the household and take a long walk around the point to myself as Charlie doesn’t love the street. And this is where I see the delicate cheery splendor of apple blossoms against the vast blue of sea and sky. It’s cool and very wonderfully sunny warming me up, and I walk fast with pleasure. Then, I return home, and there is a need for loving voices and breakfast, so I make avocado toast and fried eggs for my daughters and my daughter’s boyfriend. No agenda. What sweet rest and relief to say, let’s just do this and then this and then this, and only if we feel like it. A long drive. Another hike. A meal here and there. Harmony and ease. It’s in the country of the pointed firs. But, tonight, I do go to Monday night poetry, with my poem, one of my last of the letters. I get helpful feedback. Tonight the wind blows up hard and loud and thrashing on rocks and it’s exciting to hear it, to be near it, to sleep under its froth and spell.