Sunday Morning

It's a beautiful day in the country, the sun is shinning. There is a stillness and a silence, I sit and gaze at, feel it. Beauty, solitude. It is broken only by a singular bee buzzing past... zzzZZZ... ZZZzzz... There is a freshness and crispness to the air. I sit on the front step and the sun touches me like warm honey and I think I never want to go back to the city. The leaves on the grape vine are turning yellow and falling.
The sky is unblemished blue, the tall gums are framed against it.
The leaves, in the garden, are almost translucent with the bright morning sun behind them. The spider's webs glisten and sparkle silver, like jewels on a fine string.
The Crimson Rosella's are up and foraging, a flash of red and they are gone. The Rainbow Lorikeets are wanting seed, they stand their ground and look me in the eye.
I've stacked the fire, even though there is, really, no need. But, I always think the a hearth looks sad without flames licking orange at logs.
Now, I'm just waiting for the coffee machine to warm up and every thing will be well with the world.