21 Days From My Window
This morning through my window, the sun shines brightly. The wind has finished his performance, packed up, and headed down the road. The trees and the flag droop quietly in the morning glare as though remembering their late night celebration, and nursing a morning headache. The house across the street has started putting on her Christmas finery. A wreath of red and green hangs on her door, and what look to be red poinsettias flank the green wooden bench on the porch.
Withered leaves dot my neighbor’s lawn like pecans in a banana bread batter. Patches of frosty dew are slowly lightening and the neighbor’s truck stands dripping in the driveway. The neighbor with the wreath on his door steps outside and breathes in the crisp morning air. He does not wear a coat, rather a long sleeved purple shirt and blue jeans. He steps into his car and pulls out of the driveway. Soon he returns, carrying a jug of milk. He looks as though he’s whistling as he climbs the steps. He disappears back into the house to what I imagine is a warm breakfast. And I smile as I watch behind my chilly window pane.
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