Just a moment ago I opened the sliding glass door and took a deep breath of warm, humid air. At the end of a passing thunder storm everything dripped, and so I did not step outside but rather surveyed the hanging baskets and planter boxes through the screen. Everything was flourishing.
To my right brilliant green wheat grass sprouted a couple of inches tall, planted for the cat we no longer have with us. Could there be a clearer sign that life goes on, I wondered, or is it just a patch of grass that nobody even wants?
The tiniest of chirp pierced my sadness. A hummingbird as gray as the sky sipped at the salvia in the hanging basket across the deck. I held my breath as she whirred to within inches of where I stood, and just above the cat grass paused at a striped yellow petunia and drank her fill of nectar and rain water before silently zipping away.
To my right brilliant green wheat grass sprouted a couple of inches tall, planted for the cat we no longer have with us. Could there be a clearer sign that life goes on, I wondered, or is it just a patch of grass that nobody even wants?
The tiniest of chirp pierced my sadness. A hummingbird as gray as the sky sipped at the salvia in the hanging basket across the deck. I held my breath as she whirred to within inches of where I stood, and just above the cat grass paused at a striped yellow petunia and drank her fill of nectar and rain water before silently zipping away.
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