I take my portable studio this beautiful a.m. to my brother Pierre's backyard - surrounded by hostas in this part of Warwick. The distant traffic - not overtaking the birds chirping - and a lonely dogwood - which still sleeps in the early morning glow is evident. A runner jogs with dog not in tow... he's still sleeping in his corner of the bedroom. A slender, monk-garmented Saint Francis stands by the birdbath and gazes upon the Weber grill which performed double-duty only two nights prior. I relish lounging on the chaise. I like knowing the day has yet to unfold and I can still rest one-quarter dazed in my little dreamscape I experienced the night before. Can you hear the birds? They seized their song for an instant... and the coneflower stands pert and pretty.