I have my coffee, hot and sweet and dark, and my sketchbook, my stories, and I’m sitting on my red brick patio, listening to the morning birdsong, the occasional car and the far away droning call of a train. The air smells of mint from my garden, the scent carried on a slight breeze. The sun is just beginning to burn through the haze and a bird lands on the gutter above my head its wings thrumming against the aluminium.
My small patio. My small house. My small life filled with things that fill my life with beauty and thought and interest, My small house that lets me live a bigger life with my kids, as I wait for the patter-thumb of little feet to come down the stairs and greet me; with my wife whose ideas keep my life interesting and whose beauty does me in every time.
My small house that lets me work on my footprint and work on which kind I really want to leave on this planet when I go.
And, my small house, which lets me be stay on vacation, though I could work, and be here, now, in the now, to write this, to enjoy all this.
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