Sunday morning and the world is in no hurry. The bees are the only things seemingly busy on this first Sunday in May, flying past my open window making noise like traffic passing by on a nearby road. I guess for a bee every morning is like a Monday morning. They wake early, listen to the traffic reports, and weather forecasts as they shower and get ready. Then maybe like us they gulp down a quick breakfast and dart off for another day of flying around being a busy bee. I wonder what bees do to relax? What does a bee do when it's time to unwind?
I lie in bed waking slowly from a restful sleep, like springtime after a long winter. I stare aimlessly out of the window at the fresh green leaves that seem to have suddenly appeared on the tree in no more than a matter of days. It too is waking from a long sleep, coming back to life after the winter months, possibly even more pleased than I to feel the warmth of the springtime sun.
I close my eyes and drift away to that place between sleeping and waking, where the sounds of reality somehow get woven into the fabric of dreams, where past, present, and future collide in the strangest technicolored adventures in which time is fluid and the most fascinating hour is, in fact, little more than a heartbeat.
I'm in no hurry to wake. Sunday's in no hurry, either.