Sea Legs

After days inside, a body longs to be outdoors. So this body made its way to the deck as dawn was breaking, lured the little doggie outside, too. I found a seat cushion that wasn't totally saturated, and sat down on one of the wrought-iron chairs.

Before I could type a word, a drop of water plopped on my screen. Another morning shower — or the bamboo shaking off its excess? I chose the latter. Not that it's up to me, of course, but at that point in the day the morning still seemed up for grabs. I wouldn't go inside, not yet.

I sit and watch Copper, who's sticking his head between the deck railings and screwing up his courage. A few minutes later he's trotted down the stairs into the sodden yard.

The two of us have sea legs. The dry world is new to us. But we'll get the hang of it; I know we will.