When I was a kid I loved early summer mornings.  Sleeping in was never really an option in our house, and since mostly that fit with my natural physical bent, I didn't mind too awful much.  Most of the time.

June is the month emblazoned in my memory that most holds the clearest picture of tranquility.  It was still not mid-summer, where the days get long and the world endures the blazing heat.  June was cool nights that morphed lazily into warmth and then slipped back to coolness as the earth grew dark. 

The cool nights produced dew on the ground.  Early June mornings as a kid usually involved my shoes or bare feet getting wet as I ran through the yard, the earth not having yet warmed and dried itself in the sun long enough.  I waited for the warmth, the hotness of the day to come in June.  There was anticipation.

I left the house to run this morning, this June morning.  I was a kid again as I ran.  The dew was heavy in the grass, the air was light and cool, the world and everything in it was not warmed up and dried off fully yet.  I liked June.  I liked the feel of it, what it represented - the full passage of spring to summer.  It was an aaaahhhhhh month.

My mind was a bit like a June morning as well as I ran.  I was waiting for the crap to leave my thoughts and my spirit.  To be chased away by things I knew not pummeled by things I felt.  I ran to get it out.  I stifled a cry, willing myself to save my lungs for running and not waste them on tears.  

I returned to sit on the porch to drink coffee, eat a bowl of cantaloupe and watch the water droplets on the grass dissipate in the breeze and warmth of the eastern sun.   I let my tears out as well to dry in the sun too.

I did so love June.  I still do. 

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