Textures of a Sunday morning

Soft. The minute I stepped outside to consider a walk through town, soft is the word I felt on my skin. 

Moments after settling on a bench trailside to the Pinellas corridor, an older fella zipped by on his Segway, cheerfully playing "You are My Sunshine." On a harmonica. In an upbeat tempo to match his zippiness. 

"One tattoo is one too many," a woman lectures her walking partner on the perils of body markings. And I sit and wonder at the graciousness and acceptance some humans find difficult to grasp. 

Overhead a bird happily, and rapidly, sang through its entire repertoire of songs, signals, and clicks, even more urgently than the invocation of the First Methodist church bells encouraging all to take up their favorite pew immediately. 

Brilliant green flocks of parrots, non-native to the area, freed generations ago from the cages where we fed them bits of bologna, paying us back with their raucous, aggressive and intense screeching, refusing to be mute any longer. 

Dogs walking their people, sometimes dragging, sometimes obediently in step with their master's every move, and ever alert to opportunity. 

Young couples wander between coffee shops relieving their throbbing temples from last night's indulgences and prepping for Sunday afternoon football.

E-oo, e-oo . . . e-oo, e-oo squeak the bicycle chains straining to the rhythm of their riders communing with nature this soft Sunday morning.

The nature of living things is a power source. Here is when I find a balance between seeking and finding.