There is a certain silence that accompanies Sunday mornings.

As I sit in the sunshine, the only sounds I hear are the buzzing of my hummingbird's wings as it flits from my petunias to my cosmos to my verbena, and back again.

There are none of the usual sounds of my neighborhood rousing themselves for work - no dogs being let out, no cars speeding towards town, no garbage trucks rumbling around their daily route.

I sit in the sunshine with my book, and I wonder what rituals everyone else has for a Sunday morning. I'm sure for many they include church, or a family meal, or maybe a trip into the big city. But even then, Sunday morning sounds so different.

For me, Sunday morning rituals are small sounds: coffee being poured into my favorite mug, the crack of a spine on a new book, the click of my keyboard, the door snicking shut behind me as I step onto my flower-covered patio.

If only every day could start as serenely as Sundays.

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