Some mornings I look at the angle of the light shining through the oak in the courtyard of the old sandstone church.
Some mornings I watch a small dog nestle under a stool as his owner reads the paper.
Some mornings I stretch in the park and feel the day filled with infinite possibilities.
Some mornings I drink a long black out of a bright turquoise cup and start writing my bestseller in a yellow Moleskine notebook.
Some mornings I look at the sky over the neighbour’s hedge and feel part of something infinite.
What did you do this morning?