Again, the dogs and cat sleep, some curled into a ball on worn-out cushions, others stretched on sofa arms in the sun. The light, caught in the wind between its source and the front of the dresser, waves across a blown-glass drawer pull. Cottonwood Mel, finally shed of all leaves, moves its higher branches up and down against the steel blue of the shining sky.
Lately, I’ve been savoring these quiet moments, the in-between times, when I’m not working, watching, cleaning, dressing, moving or waiting. Here we are, almost mid-November, just as the first week of cold has spilled into our lives. Here we are, thinking of bringing up the box of scarves, hats, down and fleece from the basement. Here we are, realizing those afternoons working on the porch or evening walking barefoot to the car, are mostly swept away by the season.
It moves so fast. It comes so slow. Always, it lands so completely as itself: this moment, quiet or not, when one cat suddenly wakes, jumps down and walks through the light and shadow to find some mischief. Happy quiet moment, whenever you can find it, to you.