I am up.

Hollow.

Olive oil cake. I find some peace in the sifting of the flour. The zest of the Valencia orange smells so much sweeter.

Morning sounds: sputtering coffee maker, my fingers on the keys, sprinklers, bird chatter, a small plane cutting across the sky.

The color of the hills. The gray-white fog off in the distance. That cow is number 18; I wonder how many there are in total?

It reminds me of the cottage in the Missouri Hopper Vineyard.

It might be one of the more perfect weather days we’ve had in some time. Morning pages done in the afternoon. Reading about miracles in the hammock.

Margie is making me cry.

She gives me a hug and thanks me for letting her help me tidy up.

The upside is that I have a nightstand and can drink the leftover Muller Thurgau from this morning’s tasting group. And there’s the sound of her turning pages in the dark, the palm trees rustling in the wind, one more plane.