I love the smell of a June morning. I open the front door to bring in the newspaper and before I even have the screen door halfway open, the scent enfolds me, and I am at the lake.
It's that deliciously soft moistness that can only be maintained by nearness to a body of water. When we lived in southwestern Ontario, we knew too well that the morning sweetness would soon morph into oppressive humidity, into air like pudding. Here in the high plains desert, it quickly burns off in the glaring sun. But those brief morning hours, they smell so sweet.
The last few days the Slightly Retarded Kitty has been coming home looking like a refugee from a My Little Pony wedding. As the cherry tree in the front yard slowly loses its blooms, the prevailing wind has been blowing the pink confetti onto our front porch and sidewalk. The SRK, always a big fan of sidewalk rolling and the subsequent outdoor belly rub, generally manages to find the pinkest sidewalk block on which to commence rolling. She looks fancy in pink.
June, of course, is recital month, so I am spending a lot of time at work, listening to Chopsticks. It's an easy gig, and a great chance to catch up on my reading. Kurt Vonnegut, currently. I may need to reread those paperbacks of his that are falling apart on my bookshelf.
What are you reading? What do your mornings smell like?