I sit half-listening to the patter of raindrops on the heart-shaped leaves of a young redbud, a tender tattoo as if ethereal fingers played a tune. The light emerald is touched with shimmering gold from a brief flash of sunset promising more of the same tomorrow.
This music of nature that pleases me so also terrifies the cats; they huddle beneath my knees as if I am the only safety they can claim. I turn the pages of my heavy book, mind half-engrossed in the details of life during the Revolutionary War era, but reaching to touch soft, warm fur now and then. It seems to be enough.
The scent of fragrant oolong tea and ginger snaps mingles with the bruised green odor of wet forest and printed pages. A neat, white-velvet paw wraps around my ankle, stealthy but trusting, and I can feel a tickle of whiskers and steady breath against my bare heel.
Turning another page, I am careful not to move my feet, sanctuary that they have become, and quietly breathe deep of evening birdsong and mountain clouds.
© July 6, 2017, by R. Lee Tipton