Miranda Jones, grasping a mug of warm lemon-tea in one hand, with her other hand slid open the door to her deck, grinning at the complex trill of a robin.
She stepped out into the cool freshness just in time to see the first rays of sun arrow over the ridge behind her house, then race through a thick stand of pines to pierce the Pacific waves dancing in the near distance.
After sinking into a deck chair, she was about to sip her tea when something bulleted past her head. She ducked, nearly spilling her drink. She whipped her head around to discover what it was, but saw no silhouette against the pale sky. Some kind of flying critter . . . nearly penetrated my ear and flew off with a hank of my hair. Well, not really, she admitted. But what was that? Too small to be the robin, too large for a bumble bee. A hummingbird? But why? It’s not like I had anything sweet nearby . . . no nectar . . . nothing red.
Leaving the mystery unsolved, she glanced over at the hammock she’d recently added to her deck furniture. I’ve been in Milford-Haven for eight months, but I’m still figuring out what works for my new space, still getting settled. The hammock—a stretched-fabric bed fitted to a metal frame—made her smile. An indulgence . . . but, it seems perfect right there. That dark green canvas echoes the living room couch . . . blends with the pines out here. . . . I haven’t really tried it out, except just for a minute right after Kevin helped me set it up.
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