Savoring the perfect temperature. Coffee in a slate blue cup. Heavy dew (I almost typed frost). Quite a bird chorus but only 4 were distinguished: Magnolia Warbler, Eastern Phoebe, Red-eyed Vireo, Ovenbird. Too early to feed mosquitoes, from my window I watch Soleil walking through leaves.

     Leaves flutter in a passing breeze. Among the sounds of morning, eight voices, including an unseen Barred Owl and its seven companions. Last night after I turned off the computer, turned off the desk lamp a crash. I’m not sure what nudged the ornate frame on the top shelf into motion, but it gained speed taking with it the metal pitcher of dried flowers. Frame, flowers broken.

     Morning withholds her humid breath. Ever so briefly, clouds shelter me and the three from Soleil’s rage. Soleil protests: “All that happens is not within my power. I follow an eternal path laid out by my Father on the fourth day. I am a gift. You seek my warmth. You ask me to dry the ground, to lift up the flowers. You curse and beseech me. You take for granted that I will return day after day. I am constant, a symbol of hope not scorching heat.”

     I looked at bright white patterns on the ceiling, changing, rearranging angles and lines, being still, moving again according to the whims of leaves jostled by wind and light coming through the blinds, sun at the perfect angle. I didn’t need to look to know the air quality index is hazardous, my breathing tells me. That reading like temperature varies according to where measurements are taken. Human bodies are a better measure.

     What happened here? I remember waking twice feeling like I was lying on cement. Did I fight with the night? I fought with something, or someone did. Pillows gone. Quilt missing. Something pulling at or holding onto the remaining cotton blanket as if to climb onto the bed or cocoon themselves in it. In darkness, I remember waking twice. The story, all the characters vanished when I opened my eyes. Only the pain in my right hand remembers the night. More likely the unhealed injury of falling face down weeks ago with the screen door aggravated by the story that took place last night.

     I chose the sunny cup confident that I had before bed put coffee in the filter as usual. Apparently not, the grounds were wet. I mused to the three that perhaps someone came in for a cup while we were sleeping.

     Yesterday, I chose a yellow cup, one of Soleil’s many colors. I placed the yellow cup beside blue lights, beside white flowers making my own vision of sunshine, blue skies, white clouds. Today my cup is slate gray. Today Soleil has turned on her light. Today skies are blue. Birds sing. Mariah stirs a breeze.

     I didn’t hear any birds, just opened the door for the three. Went to find orange thread to mend a dress, a belt loop precisely. Do I even have orange thread? That’s not a color I usually wear but, I have this dress. It’s orange. Perhaps it’s rusted red? Burnt orange?

     The blinds are raised—but only on days when Soleil is away with her entourage. A few narrow paths still wind through lush green leaves, reaching toward a soft, silver sky. A rooster crows. An Ovenbird offers a chipped greeting. Coffee steams in a blue cup. The three have returned to sleeping.

     Too thirsty for mother nature’s brew to collect in low places, the earth drinks all that is given. Mariah is not here to shake droplets from leaves or to bend bow and scrape branches together. Soleil does not come to brush the skies with gold nor light paths through the trees. Birds listen to the song of rain they don’t join in. No drops slide down windows; no drops create tapestries on screens.

     I’ve reheated this not quite full coffee cup: half chocolate coconut three times. I should drink it. Unheard by me at six this smoke-scented morning: Cedar Waxwing, Chipping Sparrow, Red-eyed Vireo, Yellow-bellied Sapsucker and Northern Parula were recorded. My ears were filled with celestial ringing.

     The three are not impressed with the detour through the living room to the kitchen to the water bowl and biscuits. The folded Acacia Wood picnic table leans where I was able to push it just inside the door. Not so long ago I carried it across the drive, up the ramp, unfolded the metal feet, turned it over, set it in place. Oh age! What have you done with my strength?