I watch white butterflies flutter by.
The local feral cat dozes under a nearby bush.
As with the boisterous Stellar’s jays who I feed peanuts, the cat accepts my presence now.
S/he gives me a lazy, sidelong glance.
I focus into those two eyes and blink my own very slowly.
The cat returns my slow blink.
This means we are still cool. I speak cat, see.
I am poor but I am elitely wealthy in simple luxury.
So, I suppose that I am rich at the moment,
to my mind’s eye.
In scenery. In being able to walk to work.
In being down with the local flora and fauna.
I smell bursts of flowers’ blooms from proficient gardeners.
Blasts of fragrances from local shops with open, front doors.
The day invites me.