The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs

I woke up sure that it must be after six. I know this because the birds are starting to  twitter and take up the song the frogs have been singing all night. I find myself laying in bed with the lyric "the littlest birds sing the prettiest songs" caressing my mind.

Walter has come in and laid on top of me purring and trying to nudge me to get up and let her out.

But the clock says it is 3:33. I walk out onto the back porch and it seems like late afternoon - with long shadows coming from the rocking chairs and hanging plants. The moon! The moon has fooled us all - it is brilliant, pretending to be the sun while no one is looking.

In Alberta where the elements of nature are in sharper relief this kind of moon was common. Often the night would be transformed into pseudo-day like a seduction by a master con artist, drawing the sleeper out onto the porch or lawn just to stand there. I would find myself out on the grass at two in the morning, waving a hello at a neighbor three houses down who just happened to be standing on their front lawn, both of us gazing around in amazement.

Life is full of wonder if we take the time to look. I am getting older, and it is easy to think there is nothing new to discover. What a mistake that is!

I've opened all the windows because the humidity is low. I have an email in my head I need to send to my kid in Canada. The water pot is boiling. I am going to be tired when six o'clock rolls around.