I'm alone on a second story balcony, feet propped up on the railing. Though the sun has started to set, it is still vivid out; the blue sky is streaked with salmon, peach and yellowish white brushstrokes. Awnings and tree tops blow gently in the slight breeze. Birds are all around. Some gulls and their avian kin fly by, low across the horizon, while others sing in the background. A crow just glided to a soft stop atop a chimney.
I just cooked dinner for everyone -first for the kids and then the adults- and feel wholly sated now. It was a simple meal but a thoughtful one, prepared with in-season produce and a hot grill.
These sorts of dishes make me feel so happy and good. They aren't fancy or frilly (though those can be fun to prepare and eat too), not difficult or overly time-consuming. They aren't even mine, really. I riffed on recipes I'd eaten before and remembered clearly, or read about and wanted to make.
They're healthy and beautiful and full of flavor, and I just can't imagine it gets much better.
The sun is sinking lower, ever so slowly which is delightful. You know those evenings where it drops like a guillotine? All fast and furious, and if you blink, you miss it. Not tonight, not here.
The crow has relocated to the other end of the roof. His tail is still moving up and down, up and down. Is it leverage? Is it a signal? He's not in a rush, and I like that about him.