Late in the day . . . running outside to dispel the hovering tension . . . the caged impatience . . . anxious for Spring's warmer touch . . .
Sunshine's fingers reaches through the trees on the hillside. . . growing longer . . . thinner . . .
reminding me that bedtime is only a breath away.
But, it's Saturday, so we ignore the signs. . .deaf to the universe's minute hand. . .
And swing. . .
I like fwing! I like fwing!
Smiles and laughter coloring this still corner of the wood. . .
Our puppies running happy . . . Max the bull . . . Dude the old matador . . . still skillful in her age . . . turning to miss his clumsy swipes round her, beside her . . . rediscovering her youth. . . her joy of playing outside. . .
Cheeks and fingers red, we retreat back indoors. . . for dinner and bedtime. . .
And one last breath outside. . . While a distant church chimes the hour ten . . . embracing the stars and the melody under the clear, black sky. . .a quiet. . .a still. . .that I miss during those chaotic moments between breakfast and bedtime.
Muddled fragments of dreams I can never quiet understand, or remember. . .and morning comes all too soon. . .Max announcing his puppy bladder can wait no longer. . . Luke waking happy to a Sunday morning with his family home, together. . .
And we gather in the kitchen together. . .The boys driving their cars along the kitchen floor, while Mama and Dada brew coffee . . . making homemade waffles and strawberry syrup . . . reminiscing about Mexico . . . and planning our Sunday together . . .
Moments that almost slip through my fingers . . . maybe not so ordinary . . . I wrap their loose threads [so much like a spider's web], gently, into a small package. . . and slip it into my pocket for later. . .