Sunday Morning 6:30 a.m.

It rained overnight or earlier this morning.  Not a hard rain, as the path has dry shadows under overhanging branches.  The tree are a fresh green, washed. Leaves hold reflective water droplets, jeweled prisms that remind me of the cabochons of my moonstone bracelets.  Roadside dandelion seed heads have the  indignant look of a wet cat.  The dandelions are waiting for the sun to dry their whiskers so they can float on a spring breeze.