It's wearisome outrunning this normalcy that litters my path with platitudes. Nymphs frolic in a field of roses somewhere I want to be. Where droplets of dew on green blades reflect morning sunlight. Late risers get the morning news from chirping birds whose melodies echo dreams past.

under the sycamore

A sticky sweet smell hangs in the air as the crisp breeze abates. A shepherd, some workers, and a white-tailed rabbit like actors in a silent film amble without rush. The sun blankets the morning dew. There is no beginning or end between sips of warm coffee.