Daylight peeps into our windows, moving across the longleaf pine floors just as it has each morning for over a hundred years. Same windows. Same floors. Same walls.
Yet the angle of the sun feels different on Saturday.
Lucy snoozes in a bright spot near the window keeping one eye on a squirrel already gathering nuts for winter.
John reads the comic section of the newspaper. He is silent except for an occasional chuckle.
I write and enjoy my first cup of coffee, just as I did yesterday and the day before. But coffee tastes different on Saturday.
Saturday Sun, Nick Drake