The aspen trees have leaves big enough now to make that sweet watery sound when the wind is blowing. There’s the low hum of lawn mowers coming from a few different directions, and both my neighbors and I have turned on our backyard fountains for the season.
This is pure bliss.
Me, swinging in a hammock on the deck that’s a little in the shade and a little in the sun; the Goldfish, sitting beside me spilling out a tune on his harmonica; the Rev, tucked up tightly for his afternoon nap; and Hank, just inside letting his fingers dance over the strings of his acoustic guitar.
It makes my insides do that flippy-turny thing because it’s just that good.
This morning, over little personal-sized tubs of yogurt, we looked out the window to this.
‘Tis the season for hot air ballooning again.
We live in a pretty groovy spot for balloon sightings.
They only fly early in the mornings, though.
But if you rub the sleep out of your eyes well and good, you’re lucky enough to track them for a bit.
And if you’re really lucky, they’ll land in your neighborhood.
Kids jumped on bikes, neighbors dragged patio chairs over and chatted over low fences, grandpas held on tightly to little hands. Some were fortunate enough to be dressed for the day, but we were still in our jammies with yogurt beards and mustaches.
And fireman galoshes, of course.
Bliss-o-meter = full.
Have a happy Saturday!