What is it about Sundays? On my street, there is a divine tranquility, almost silence. Garage doors remain closed – no work today for my neighbors. Through the thick hedge, I can see the passing feet of the odd jogger or dogs and owner. No mowers, blowers or hedge clippers yet. Even the not-distant-enough highway sounds soothing — a steady whoosh rarely broken by the squeal or roar of a truck. It will be another hot one later but at 7:00 AM, the cool of night still lingers.
Across the street is a triangle of land owned by the city, overgrown with weeds. My neighbor has called to complain that it needs cutting because it’s hard to see if there is traffic when pulling out from Sterling Place. But from my window, it’s a field of Queen Anne’s Lace. Maybe I’ll don some boots (tick-terror) to cut a bouquet. Then I’ll water the tomatoes, pots of Petunias and herbs. We’ll kayak. But now, this hour of mine before the house and neighborhood really wakes, I savor the morning light, the kaleidoscope of greens, the quiet.