I go to church 20 times on a Sunday.

Awake with the songs of 50 neighbors, the soft light through my windows beckons me to fresh air where I marvel at the squirrel chatter and say a prayer of thanks for the goat herder who discovered my coffee.

We sit on the deck, the dog and I. He, chewing sticks while I relish “good morning” texts from those whom I call beloved. My four-legged old man, the only ball and chain I can sustain, stiffly rises from his spot and sniffs around the yard- making his rounds like a security guard.

Breezes flutter potato vines and caress my skin and the windchimes alike. Dance and song with the choir of birds singing  different songs in perfect harmony.

Empty cup, rising sun and humidity signal it’s now time to go meet God at his house. He’s been at mine all morning.