Late Sunday Breakfast
February 28, 1990
We have moved the table to the winter window in the living room, where the sun streaks the flowered tablecloth into place settings, and the air dances in golden rays. And as we feast, silken strings of a classical concerto imitate balmy breezes rustling through saturated leaves while piano mingles round, clear drops from ancient fountains, and we relax into the music and talk of summer places.