Spring is about to say goodbye, leaving behind green trees and golden wheat fields outside my window. The sky is clear blue and the clouds are white; the thunderstorm last night must have washed them clean. I find it hard to imagine there’s another storm, even a severe one, brewing somewhere, beyond these trees and wheat fields.
But now is the time for birdsongs, and their perfect taal with the music from my keystrokes—both telling stories of their own.
Peeling like an onion, time reveals layers after layers of stories waiting to be told. Swirls of steam from a fresh cup of coffee hover over pages freshly printed.
What a wonderful time to write!