Sunday Morning in my village: The church bells ring. The night curtain lifts. The baker puts out his baguettes. Sacha sleepy-eye walks around the corner to buy one. The birds begin to sing. The antique markets have been picked over. French husband will race downstairs when the tea-kettle whistles. Chelsea studies in a home away from home. The neighbor’s cat sneaks across our patio. The last fig falls from the tree. All this I know to be true, as I sit and collect the pleasure of a simple life. Amen.
Photo: A view from my village.
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