Spring mornings, weekends.

Windows open, warm breeze sifting through the screen
like a sieve.
Buzzing insect sounds filter in. The heavy, wet air stays out. Cardinals in the morning. Deep, deep red feathers. Melodious songs to each other. A new symphony in the trees with conductors we couldn't see.
Dog paws, muted by the carpet. She springs up and flops down, deeply sighing.
His funny rhymes and morning games. Lingering, lingering. And out the window, when I flop over, just leaves. Miles and miles of green.
Fuzzy dreams still alive, the nonsensical coming back in waves, through feelings instead of pictures.
I go to leave. He pulls me closer. Promises of coffee, and juice.
He loved his morning nectar.