Everything soft, cushioned by low grey fog. I sit immersed in warm water in our side-yard hot tub, coffee in hand. And listen. High above the clouds Sandhill cranes trill, invisible. The sycamore’s branches stretch up into the soft sky, the fingerling branches delicate slender fingers. Dry leaves caught among the branch tips like paper birds, seed pods dangle awaiting the next finch or jay. Only my above-water shoulders feel the morning’s chilliness as I tune in to the sound of stillness. So much rain the past few days, everything soaked, full to the brim and spilling over, buckets and clay flowerpot saucers standing full of fresh rainwater, only months away from a scorching summer where water will be in short supply. Balancing my cup on my knee beneath the water to keep it warm, I look skyward and hear a small flock of Canada geese honking softly, hidden by clouds. Perfect.