Weather Report

This morning clouds smoke by like steam from an old train, moving on, moving on, glazing the tops of trees with silver, teasing the light trying to stop at our station. Makes me want to take a little trip back to a time of linens on tables, sipping from china cups, curious peeks from windows as towns sat still and passengers made up stories as to the lives lived outside train windows. 
If the wheels ceased turning, doors slid open, and people ventured forth, what would they find here in Paradise today? At Misty Hill, a cardinal kissing the earth, wind chimes flirting with a song, "It's quiet here, just enough music to soothe the soul" a robin, red breast puffed with pride in greeting, would meet them, outside my French doors.