Most mornings I’d find myself here.
Soaking in the light and view of the sea.
A flannel thrown across my chair for venturing out — my armor against the army of insects awaiting me.
The smell of coffee in the air.
A pen or a book at hand.
The rhythmic sound of the surf.
We carve out places…
In our hearts and minds.
…and on this grey day, windows cracked….wind kicking up and rain threatening…
I can hear the rhythmic sound of the surf.
There’s a pen and a book at hand.
The smell of coffee is in the air (of course).
…and I’m back there.
