Wednesday, June 4, 2025, 49.1* 0647 Smoky
Like the white of plaster walls after a winter of burning wood years ago in our Northern Maine home, that is the color of sky this morning. Soleil, a glowing ember. Inside the house, outside, we breathe smoke, taste it on our lips, blink to clear our eyes.
No ash falls as it did 41 years ago on the wooden deck of a sailboat anchored in Florida, our winter home with a toddler and a dog.
While the three meandered I returned for my hearing aids not sure birds were singing. Discovered the countertop holding my coffee not quite spilling it over the edge. How did I not see when I pushed the button, there was no cup?
Life is not illusion. Spilled things must be cleaned up.
Photo: LJ Austin
