I brew a cup of Darjeeling, then slather a toasted sourdough English muffin with butter. I spoon on some homemade strawberry freezer jam, enough to drip down my chin when I take a bite. The white wooden porch swing hangs from rusted chains and creak-squeaks as I settle into it. It’s hot already, but it’s dry, and there’s a nice breeze from the west.
I plan to sit just long enough to eat. I have a lot to do, and sitting won’t accomplish it.
But . . .
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