The waiting

Americans hate to wait.

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It's Sunday morning, and a plume of steam dances up out of my coffee mug into the sunlight. As I sink into someone else's travelogue, I'm conscious of the volumes of activity around me:

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... a cardinal pecks at breakfast in the feeder while birds of other tribes call across the backyard canopy.

... cicadas warn of summer's end.

... dogs behind fences bark at dogs on leashes.

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... sirens from the local fire station announce, again, someone's health is at risk.

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... willow leaves float down in peaceful defeat as Canadian Geese rise up with newfound honks of urgency.

... Mustangs and Ninjas flex their muscles on the main drag, racing from one insignificant starting line to another.

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... another neighor's car bleats another false alarm.

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I close my eyes to let my mind plant me in the middle of a remote desert landscape: Quiet. Calm. Unhurried. Simply being in the place where I am.

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Just inside 3 weeks now, and I wish Abby's and my flights were tomrrow. It feels akin to buying a lottery ticket on the weekend after the pot has reached $500M* and then having to wait for the Wednesday night drawing.

HURRY UP ALREADY.

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Call me a patriot.

*My own personal breaking point at which greed overtakes my understanding of basic statistics