Upon the petals sit a hundred beads of water, each one a perfect sphere, brilliant in the morning rays. Each drop sits so lightly, yet together they are enough to cause the bloom to bow toward the earth. So delicate is the flower that even these scatterings of dew are significant. Soon the gentle heat of the morning will send them back to the clouds and the bloom will raise her head, calling to the summer bees.
Early mornings are their own reward. The mountains are silhouettes against a crimson sky and the air smells of the ocean. There is no drone of cars, or the hiss as they move over the rain coated street; there is only the cry of the gulls as they call for the fishing boats to come in. There is something about the dawn that makes each new day such a gift, eases it in gently, unwrappi
