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  • Writer's pictureShannon Elisabeth

à la maison in the french contryside

The morning in my French village passed with only the sound of birdsong and Gemma dog's occasional yawn. Bird wings flapped overhead in the lanky armed, bare trees. I stood silently and relaxed with a cup of coffee, looking across the river, noting a clearing of daffodils and forsythia branches on the island. Green tendrils nosed out of the damp ground. And a carpet of verdant grass replaced the bogs. My hands felt numb, even with the hot coffee, but I inhaled the scent of spring before returning inside. Everything was familiar and safe. I am home.

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