Right now, the air is that perfect cool that happens most mornings on my back deck. Bit of moisture from earlier, but nowhere near damp. Comfortable in my worn out hoodie, but not chilly. It promises a gorgeous California day, without the rain that we desperately need, but with the picture perfect sunshine that people in other climes pretend to despise (“where are your seasons?”).

Birds are around, chirping and such, but still very chill (the crazy yelling seems to happen later in the day). Fruitvale is moving, filled with passing cars (something like a river, if we need to look for pastoral parallels to my urban oasis), no hollering or honking yet, but busy.

The light is perfect. Pockets of sun through the trees, dappled and gentle no matter where I choose to sit and write. Later, when the sun is directly overhead, the light will be direct and unforgiving.

If I could, I’d bottle this feeling up, and save it for those late afternoons filled with the panic of sundown. The regrets and recriminations as the light begins to wane, the day threatens to abandon us to night. Leaving us with the weight of all that’s left undone and done poorly — all the failures and disappointments of the day.

Then, as despair threatened to swallow me whole, I could open the bottle, reminding myself of the promise of morning, the promise of possibility, and the feeling that time was endless and filled with optimism.