Mourning doves and mockingbirds

Today, when I began to feel overwhelmed by responsibilities, I stopped what I was doing in favor of venturing out doors to sit beneath the dogwood, the shady spot. I asked Fain if he would join me, and he agreed to if he could take Transformers. He brought Bumblebee and Optimus and Starscream and another whose name I can't recall, and I brought his fuzzy, old baby blanket, the one that his aunt found in her yard one day and gave to us.

I spread out the blanket and lay down, sunny side up, looking through the luminescent leaves at a clear blue sky, and he sat beside the garden fence, orchestrating battles between good and evil very quietly. I could make out the whooo oh whooo of a mourning dove and the scolding squeaks of the wren whose made her nest in my bluebird box, the artful and never-ceasing crooning of a mockingbird leaping up and down in his spot on the telephone wire, and dozens of other songs that I don't know by name.

The breeze was silky and cool like sheets when you first fall into bed at night, and it rustled the leaves and stirred the grass.

It was the most beautiful hour that I've had in months.