The morning’s in slow motion.
7am and beach bound. I’m driving alone on an empty highway. Windows down. Barefoot and in the Brazilian bikini hand-me-down (It didn’t fit her. It suits me this morning.).
The early air cools bare skin. Hints of Fall.
By the shore, senses are alive. The sound of white washing. Crash. Hiss. The mist of sea salt settles on my lashes. Sinking sand sifts beneath each measured step. Soft. Steady. Slow.
There is no hurry here this morning. I am the embodiment of leisure. Dancing with a lover. Inhaling golden rays that pour from sunrise clouds.
Last week my post-operative jaw was on ice. Today, I’m warm with give.
Like butter.
For the Archives 
It was the butter that caught my eye. Had me wondering if it was “home made” via the shaken jar. Nice piece of word art.
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Not home made, but thanks for the reminder on how the stuff is made. That steady churning that thickens the cream adds more dimension to my butter inspiration. Appreciate your comment!
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