A haze clings softly to the distance, while raindrops tap gently on the window pane. The birds seem delighted by the morning, notes rising from leaves washed fresh from last night’s rain.
Soon enough, the heat will settle, as the sunlight lifts.
But not yet.
For now, this cool morning air awakens my energy. Linger on the stillness. Linger on serenity.
If I still myself enough, will I feel the next poem emerge? Words that race on by before they’ve had a chance to be heard.
Let me quiet my mind. Give the poem time to be caught. It’s out here this morning. I can sense it just beyond the birdsong, just beyond the rain-washed leaves.
Words playing in the morning air. A poem creating itself for me.
The suitcases aren’t packed yet, but I can feel the turning.
Soon, we will return to Wisconsin. To seasons that bite for a while still before the bloom. To thawing lakes instead of ocean waves. To a different rhythm.
But before we go — I need to pause.
I need to say thank you.
What a gift it has been to be here. To wake each morning and walk toward the bay To breathe in air softened by salt and eucalyptus. To let the sky stretch wide above me, uncomplicated and generous.
These morning walks became more than exercise. They became prayer. They became listening. They became noticing.
I wrote a poem about those walks. About the way the light met the water. About how the sky held everything without trying to control it.
And then, as sometimes happens, the poem began to hum.
Words found melody. Steps found rhythm. Breath became song.
The ocean has a way of doing that — turning observation into offering.
Today I’m sharing that song with you. It carries the hush of early morning, the widening horizon, the gentle insistence that each day is a beginning.
As we prepare to leave, I don’t feel loss as much as layering.
Wisconsin is not a departure from this place. It is the next verse.
I need to find morning walks there too — different skies, different winds, different lessons.
Stillness instead of surf. But the same invitation to
Notice. Breathe. Begin again.
Gratitude travels well. It doesn’t require an ocean view.
So I carry this season with me — the color of the water at dawn, the way the clouds part without argument, the reminder that rhythms continue whether I cling or release.
Thank you, California mornings. Thank you for the song.
Soon we’ll turn toward Wisconsin — not leaving light behind, but carrying it home.
Tranquil Resources 