Morning garden.

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My garden feels so good but so different at sunrise than it did after dark last night. I wandered out into the cold dawn into a chorus of birdsong, the rays of the low hung sun skidding across the waters of the sea into my eyes, making me squint. The freshness was drinkable and the buds of flowers still hadn’t relaxed, holding themselves tight and fast against temperatures that were hovering just above freezing. The birds were all I could hear, and now I need to hear water boiling in the kettle and smell coffee on the brew.