It is early morning, and already the sky is bright and pale. The sun throws its yellow curtain across the tops of the leaves, inching ever higher in its desire to bathe the earth in light. The back porch is cool and expectant. No drop of sunlight falls across the mottled concrete. No bird hops from railing to railing. Cold seeps through the glass doors and tickles my toes. The sky lends its blue to all the shadows, and reflects on the dark metal of the rusting iron railings. A pale, uneven line runs across the porch where memories of rain has shoved age and dirt out of the way in the race from heaven to earth.
The foliage is so thick and cramped together that I cannot distinguish one bush from another. A drabby cardinal flits into view, shakes itself, and hops further in, questing for six-legged meals. The red vines are draped across the top of the largest bush conglomerant, like a thin scarf around a fat lady's neck. She is dressed in broad yellow leaves, shaped like long hearts, and darker, smaller leaves populate the spaces in between. Her skirt is wide, and grass brush its hem.
The sun's rays creep ever lower, brushing the lady's scarf with brilliance. She will be bathed in its glow, warmed and thawed, awakened to the new day. Her servants are beginnings to busy themselves with the days preparations with a bustle of wings and feathers. They dart here and there, each intent in his own mission, each blithely unaware of my observation.
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