We have brunch on Sundays, because by the time we finally get up, it's way past time for breakfast. We find the darkest possible roast coffee and make a pot in the french press. He chooses two cups to suit the morning--today, delicate, flowery ones for the first day of Spring [Whoopee! Welcome, Spring. I have missed you so much] and brings it to the table on a tray, and we sit, sipping and mumbling about our dreams, sharing the songs stuck in our head (I can't remember any of it anymore) and laughing at my disheveled hair and his beard sticking out at a 90 degree angle.
Catdog gets a bath, which she loves. She sits down in the warm water, lifts a leg for me to wash, then lifts the other. Leans up with her damp muzzle to lick me in the face. Later, she snoozes by the fireplace, her face pretty much completely pressed against the glass. The sun shines on my knitting.
The sun shines on my life, really. On everything.