There’s a wind-chime in our copper-beech. Six carefully baritone tuned pipes sounds softly, one after another.
There’s a dog under the birch-tree. Snoring the midday heat away.
There’s a pick up truck in our yard as our oldest son arrives with more sugar for the cherry jam.
In the middle of this am I. Standing at a garden table, tanning my back in the sun, pitting cherries. Bucket after bucket.
I am content. I am happy.