Why don’t I rise at this quiet hour more often? Cool air, dewy grass, peaceful pond ruffled by three landing sweeps – a trio of mallards have arrived for the day. Fog bank whorls over the Penobscot River, a face mask muffling the rising sun.
When you have to catch a 7:30 boat that’s an hour and a quarter’s drive away, you drag yourself up and out. Makes me wish I had to catch a 7:30 boat every morning (sort of).
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 324: 80 words, TOTAL = 52,708; 7,292 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.