I had attempted to write a poem about this morning, but I know all too well that poetry is not my forte. I tend to fall into cliches, but not like social media, where I can taste colors, and smell words. I speak of sunlight as if it's the dawn of man, when the reality is it's merely the yawn of man and beast. We both yawned, Swag and I, then stretched, his more graceful and with much less crackling. He runs, I limp, both waiting to greet the day. His prep takes less time, as pantless and shirtless is proper attire for my feline friend. He will later walk back upstairs, while I carry his food. Zig-zagging against my legs, showing his appreciation, tail standing tall. I"ve beaten this theme to death: the morning sun, the hope of a new day, the inevitable good and bad, the struggle to sleep, all just to repeat this moment, hopefully without rain. Today will be different I tell myself, as I stare at the same mug, on the same table, on the same deck. Forty-six days from now it ...