Morning sings its way earthward through thick leaden skies. Birds call in muted daylight.
Last night the house settled in June heat; lake breezes rustled the leaves in the woods. One of those evening when wind soothes over-heated humid skin. It surprises. Blows relief in through open windows. No visceral memories of six-foot snowbanks remain. Heat is King; the Queen of Wind takes pity.
This morning, close some open windows. Bird chatter echoes inside anyway. The garden boosts up in plump greenery, a riotous carpet of growth except for the yellowed cucumber and squash leaves. Will they spread their fingers and barrel along across the sleeve of the soil bearing flowered trailings?
Last evening I lingered at the laptop, pecking at the keyboard, chatting with a friend in Australia. Australia! The forest of squawking bird song and fluttering butterflies and buzzing hummingbirds meets the white sands of Byron Bay, the crest of ocean waves, the far Pacific.
We spoke of presence, of being awake. Simple presence. A presence which envelops typing fingers and simultaneously spans a globe. A presence which underlies who we are; a presence which wears bright garments of the sun and moon.
This carved plot in the forest settles on the Upper Peninsula maps whispering the name of a town called “Aura”. I think of auras dancing together around this ball of a planet, mingling in the sky like northern lights. The reds and oranges and greens of electric dancing…we’re all coming together, if only for a midnight fiesta, a Solstice twirl.
Hold your breath between sets. That hoot owl will call you out again soon enough. Our feet twirl rainbows in the black summer sky. A sky which only seems dark when you’ve slipped off your dancing shoes to ease your tired soles…