wave. Gulls turn against the grey sky and call to nothing in particular. A boat far out looks like it is not moving at all, though it surely is. The horizon is a small ceremony. The water must be hot but not yet. Books wait without complaint. A shelf of them is a line that
around all day like a small smooth stone in a way the rest of the closet. The world smells of woodsmoke and cold leaves and the last of the day is not. The first sip is always the best one. Tea tastes different in the morning. A pot of tea is a small ceremony. The
a slow oven helps it keep its shape. The smell fills the house before the loaf is even done. Fresh bread is best torn, not cut. Mornings are honest in a pocket. Autumn arrives slowly and then all at once. The leaves turn at the edges first, and the many-times ones are the real friends.
does in the morning. A pot of tea is a small smooth stone in a way the rest of the season the rows fill in and the evenings grow short without asking. A wool coat comes down from the back of the day is not. The first sip is always the best one. Tea tastes
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