The Mountain is stark and large, also reassuring, against the morning sky. It fills my vision.
The windswept streets of Woodstock are quiet and whimsically sparse as if they were in a typical Western before a shoot-out, sans tumbleweed.
I'm grateful it's not Saturday morning with the usual throngs heading towards the Old Biscuit Mill amidst the shrill, often piercing whistling of self-appointed car guards parking their short-term investments.
I know that it will be good for me to get outside today.
My street urchin of an orchard has three magnificent and hope-inspiring blooms, that have all opened in the last week. Another orchid, that I rescued from someone's sun-beaten patio, is in bud. It's not flowered before under my care and I'm curious as to what the flowers will look like.
I'm on the couch surrounded by the books I'm currently reading, nothing's really holding me, also an empty coffee cup with a sludge of coffee grounds at the bottom; they escaped the French press.
I'm thinking of walking into town, I need to stretch my legs, then on to Nerona's at the top end of Buitenkant street for a chicken salad and chilled glass of chardonnay. And a change in scenery.
I'm hoping that the wind won't be blowing there.
I think back to last Wednesday's dawn walk along Muizenberg's long stretch of beach; I'm sorry now that I didn't take a chance - despite the cold - to swim and to jump-start myself alive again.