Dew
I like dew on freshly mown grass, the tracks of the mower clear and clean. I like dew on light green leaves, the new growth. I like dew beneath my feet. An abundance of moisture. Clouds flying too close to the ground. They catch them in the Andes. The fogs roll in and water gathers on huge sheets of material that drip to collection basins.
Dew is not a given, though. Sometimes the sun wants its due, and when it calls the water home, the water goes. Up, up, and away. It did it last summer and the summer before. And not only did it gather the water on the ground, the sun demanded payment from the plants and the grasses and they surrendered it because they had little choice. It was the sun.
Dew is why I miss the Gulf Coast with it’s gulf waters misting up and over the land on the perpetual breezes. Humidity. It keeps skin soft and plants growing. But it’s hard to sweat sometimes in high heat and humidity. So, there’s a trade off. And isn’t that the way of the world. You give a little and get a little. And you get along. And sometimes you walkabout in the morning and there’s moisture in the air and it feels soft on the skin. And it’s a nice way for a day to begin.