A strange goldy light in the garden this morning; the kind that sometimes comes before storms or in those moments just before sunset—always fleeting and rarely at dawn. A little eerie but entirely beautiful. It comes from the east, over the roof to catch the tops of the spruce. A train clatters past in the south and to the north is the smell of toast. Meanwhile, at the most westerly edge of the yard, a cardinal points out the ripening blackberries by swishing about the bushes and probably stealing a few.

These are the things that tell me where I am.