Winter Morning. December 2019

This cold winter's morning, as the darkness edges away from the horizon, I find myself wishing that I was--elsewhere. And maybe elsewhen.

 
What would I be doing, and where would I be?

 
Sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, wearing flannels and wool, wrapped in a blanket, a quilt, a comforter. Which or how many of these would depend on the temperature of the air and the prevailing winds.
In my hands a hot drink. It doesn't matter what. Tea, coffee, cocoa, a toddy, hot lemonade.
The steam from the drink both warms and wets my nose. The warmth of the contents warms the cup and the hands that hold the cup.
Or do the hands warm the cup, keeping the fresh warmth from escaping?
No matter. It and I am warm and we hold one another in warmth.

 
Before me are treetops. Behind me, behind my home, are trees.
Layers of trees.
Rows of trees.

Rising solemnly in ranks and ledges and lines.
They stand silent, or Not-so-silent, in the breaking of day. They rustle, they murmur, reminding me of stretching and waking and the hushed voices of rising.
I smile and sip and look.
Below me, I see the stream moving, smoked silver in the pre-dawn. I hear the shushing of the water as it falls into the pool. I cannot see the falls -- not yet -- but I know they are there. I feel the cleansed air against my skin. I smell the freshness. I hear the soothing sounds, and
I walk away from my window looking out on the busy highway, and I wish -- Oh, how I wish! -- that the place I have been was somewhere I could actually be.