Cooler air this morning heralds not the arrival of fall but its impending arrival.
A house undergoing renovation still wears a white-on-white wicker porch swing. Twisted balusters and the siding – with the rounded bottom edge traditional to original houses in this neighborhood – gently flake milk-white paint. Whorls of bare wood, its DNA, peek through a foamy veil.
Out front, a limb of a century-old live oak reaches out to cradle the air above the street, graceful as a dancer’s arm.
On the next street over, on my way home, a Red Bird of Paradise bush, its blossoms aflame, claims my attention and I stop for a moment, paying homage.
All I have is all I need.