J.R. Johnson

We rose early. At 5:30 the world was quiet, not just because of the hour but because a heavy blanket of grey fog covered the neighborhood. Houses across the street loomed in the haze, their trees mere outlines. 

The fog is almost gone now but the grey sky remains, a low ceiling that dampens sound. The birds don’t mind. A family of grackles is flitting from back yard to front, jays and finches and robins visit for a bath, and a pair of mourning doves make themselves at home on the stonework. The plants don’t mind either. Yellow tickseed flowers stand open and bright yellow even without the sun. And now, a slight breeze whispers through the maple leaves. 

The wider world awakes.

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