The Coolness of Dew

It's the grass this morning—the lowly grass of home—and the way the dewdrops cling to it. In places gray, in places green—odd patches of color—accentuated when viewed at a slant from a ground level seat on the front doorstep. Quiet. Comforting. Cooling. Inviting.

The sun is not yet above the eastern canopy, yet the day is already warm. After an invigorating walk with the Ya-yas, I'm drenched in sweat—and hot. The grass is covered in dew—and cool. I want to roll in it, but what would the neighbors think?

Moe often tells me he loves to walk through the wet grass in his bare feet when he goes out for the morning paper.  He says its a nice way to start a day.  I try it. He's right.

Now I really want to roll in it. Still, I resist. If I ever saw any of my senior neighbors prostrate on their lawn at dawn, I'd call an ambulance. I envision protesting to the EMT, "No really, I was just sweaty." So I content myself with imagining. dkm