I found a tiny slug hanging, as though from a spider web strand. I've no clue what was up with that, but I have provided photographic evidence in case of any skepticism. Naturally, me being me, I decided to catch and release the slug. (Yeah, I know they're nuisances and it's just going to eat the lemon balm and mint I love so much...I'm not smart when it comes to slugs.) When I stepped outside, slug in hand, I was surprised at what I found.
It was predawn, so early that I couldn't tell it from looking at the sky. But the birds were singing, strangely loud. It seems like they're louder before the sun rises, I don't know why. There was a gentle rain that was wonderful to listen to.
I sat for a while, my feet getting chilled despite my house shoes, and my butt hurting due to the concrete porch, just happy to listen. I also tried meditating, but that takes a person inside themselves, whereas I wanted to be present in the moment that was surrounding me.
And I thought of the Romantic poets I've studied, whose works so beautifully described nature. Yet, despite the grace of their words, they lamented that they could not adequately portray what they wanted to. Their complaints came to mind because, no matter how I try, I know I'll never be able to properly describe those perfect moments that I occasionally stumble into.