life in the slow lane

The best way to wake up is to the sounds of chirping birds and the orange light of the rising sun through my window. I like to wake slowly, slipping into the new day, dozing and dreaming, not quite asleep nor awake. I like the smell of coffee, but I never make it at home. I ride my bike to the cafe and get my first cup and sit outside to watch the glorious morning unfold, the change of light as the sun rises higher; the reflections on the smooth mirror of water in the channel. The chickadees are building nests, the cafe dogs are laying about. Seagulls swoop and swerve and seagull talk. People come and go. I observe myself, how do I feel? What will this day bring? Do I want to work? What day of the week is it?
I used to hate Mondays. I dreaded Sunday evening as it ushered in Monday. I swore to myself to change that. Now I am able to quite well ignore the code of the days of the week. Thursday is memorable because the garbage gets picked-up. Wednesdays brings the new edition of the local newspaper. Sunday brings the big crossword puzzle. Those are the three big events of the week.
The cafe dogs, Buddy and Lucy and I, are in a laying about contest. I will lose this one again, as they are the masters of laying about. Buddy especially. I observe his technique. Damn, he is good. I want to get down with his bad self, but I am not smart enough. I assuage my feelings of lack by reminding myself that buddy doesn't have any pockets and therefore no money, no job, no prospects. Lucky Duck.
Towards noon I will get hungry and having had enough coffee to get my kidneys to wave the white flag, I will head home to eat breakfast and then to the couch for siesta. I leave the radio on and allow the talk to fade in and out. I sleep. On awakening, I get the second morning of the day. Back to the cafe, to resume my research. Damn, Buddy is good. What's for dinner? Is it beer time yet?