It was that sort of glorious summer morning; things were still sleepy, plans were pending but not pressing. Humidity broke late in the night and they threw open the windows to let in the cool, almost fierce southerly air to push its way into the house, knocking aside curtains, wending upstairs to clean out heated corners.
The coffee was strong and the peach coffee cake sugary moist and warmed to sweet perfection; resting on the summer blue and white plate with crumbs falling onto the cooling carpet. In the far distance, four lone, long blasts of a train whistle sounded out; a reminder of lives being lived in other places and with other purposes.
The neighborhood was silent. One mourning dove cooed for a bit and ceased. No one was around. A full moon lay on the calendar while July slept gently, waiting quietly at the edges for the birthing of August…
690 Saint Paul 