morning has broken . . .

I woke up this morning to the sound of Bear nudging the necessities on my bedside table ever closer to the edge until they crash to the hardwood floor below. I recognized the sound of my reading glasses ricocheting off the wall, a random lens cap clatters and bounces, my nail file teeters back and forth after its landing, until settling flush . . . which reminds me that I have to go hunting for the pen Pippin stole last night as I finally turned off the light.

But back to Bear, why does this morning ritual exist? Because it is my cat-cum-rooster's way of telling me it is morning and he, being the biggest of the tribe, has taken it upon himself to fend for the less vocal and demand breakfast. I have long since given up leaving half consumed glasses of water or wine on my bedside table . . . the results being disastrous, as you can well imagine. All things breakable are carefully stashed the night before in said table's drawer.

That chore taken care of, I get to lay in bed and marvel at all things morning. It is that time of year when the windows are thrown open, the ceiling fan is whirling, birds are chirping in stereo from catercorner windows and through the loft, I can see the burnt orange light teasing the underside of the old live oak limbs in the back yard.

How wondrous morning is when I remember to pay attention and thank you Bear for the reminder, no wonder I love you.

Peace out, cowgirls!