A sunny Sunday morning dawns, and I steal into the backyard for a quick shot of the fountain grass, brilliantly lit against a blue sky. Looks lovely enough, though a far cry from the sumptuous green straps of summer. The sun deceptively doesn’t betray the cutting wind or chilly temperature. That’s what these words are for. In the background of my screen, a Sunday morning coffee jam by Karel Barnowski plays – the perfect accompaniment for some casual writing.
It’s not a bad way to begin a Sunday on the verge of December. Certainly the sun helps, along with the sky – the sort of blue brilliance that doesn’t often happen at the end of November. Maybe Mother Nature knows there is just so much more we can take in 2020. Doubtful, that. There’s always another level below. Better to be cautious.
But on this particular morning, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I allow myself a brief moment of relief and release. I take a deep breath and appreciate the fluffy seed-heads of the fountain grass, and the way they move in the wind. We don’t get that kind of show in summer. It only comes after a full season of growth, and after the killing frosts of fall have turned the grass into a sun-bleached beacon of tan wonder.
