I can’t remember the dream anymore, but I know it was good.

Thick fog. This is a morning for coffee on the deck.

I don’t feel like yoga, which means I really need to do the yoga.

I twist my heart toward the sky and watch the hawk fly from tree to tree.

I have identified it; now, what do I do with all of it?

I feel as though I should be doing something, but I am not. And maybe doing nothing is what I should be doing.

I imagine rolling down the gentle golden slopes.

It cools down quickly and is, in fact, the perfect temperature for dinner al fresco. Dinner with interesting people and tagine and couscous and cold white wine.

The dead bird hanging by its feet is not real but unsettling nonetheless.

A small scoop of raspberry sorbet.