A Quiet Sunday Morning

This morning the washer chugs away at a load of towels from last night's swim party.  Eight teacups of baked custard cool on a rack.  A mushroom & onion omelet and a steaming cup of tea sit before me.  Now I can settle down to drawing - Chubby's, ear, his mouth when he turns his face up to let me scratch his chin, little glimpses.  I dine & sketch as the house slumbers on.

Now I stretch out in the wide reading chair that Chubby has claimed as his perch  He curls, purring on the low back.  I pet & scratch -- chin, behind ears, down his spine, all the while looking for an angle to draw -- an ear, his closed eyes & nose, one open eye from the side.  All frustration as Chubby turns this way & that to shift just the right place on his chin to my working fingers.  I look in his eye, feel the connection, see his beauty, sense the light of love radiating one creature to another.  The sight of his tongue sticking out from his closed mouth touches me -- I sense the way he has given himself over fully to simple bliss.  Suddenly, the whole world calls out to be drawn -- stones, dead basil stalks, a solitary tree on the far hill, the fig leaves by the south windows.

Chubby

Looking outside to the south.

Kate's Orchid ready to bloom.