The Plane Was On Time

The man got home and the sun came out.
Do we create our own reality?
Perhaps.
Or perhaps sometimes a coincidence is merely a coincidence.

Whatever. I sure am glad he's back.

Sunday morning, pancakes for breakfast, laundry running, dogs lying around drowsing in the sun, let-the-chickens-out, a brown and a blue egg in the nest. Light puddling everywhere and things get sorted out, set right, hearts let light in again, glimmer of hope that all will be right again, chase that black dog off into the night, scoot, dog, out of my sight.

I feel like I can open my eyes again.

I'm so glad to have him back. I think he's happy to be home.

It works out.

Good morning, y'all.

Good morning.