Yesterday may have had that 2:47am magic of quiet stillness, but this morning I’ve slept in, and now this mother has fifteen minutes of writing time before bus-stop-drop-off prep ensues.

It’s still dark, the coffee is warm, and the sound of swishing cars move at a working pace, already, down the road.

Our house still soaks in sleep. I sit at my desk by computer screen light, surrounded: the school’s Jog-a-thon donation envelope, tickets (to be sold) for the pancake breakfast, National Geographic’s family subscription offer, and a book by the Dalai Lama on the power of patience.

This morning I don’t have photographs to post. No poems.

I am not unhappy. Not uninspired. Just not rubbing elbows with the Muse this morning. Chores sidle up instead.

Today will be an art in getting Jeb to the bus stop with ease. A dance of remembering that I’m an Earthling Cling-on, lucky to be breathing, while I auto-sum spreadsheets, empty the compost, drive my little car.

I guess everyday is a humble offering in expression, here. In life. Today just feels more mundane.

I’m diving in, though, on the hunch that perhaps it’s all that much more profound.

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