The sun moves differently around the farm.
It moseys in slowly, taking its time behind the dew, waiting for the rooster to tire after its morning call.
It comes in clean, from a good night’s rest, so when it does arrive, it is fully present, lighting up the pink rose petals that flank the front door and the tiny green buds that it will bake into almonds come September.
We would let the morning sun arrive in solitude, while still wrapped in bed, only blinking our eyes to greet its brilliance once it was well above the horizon.
Being a farmer in Spain doesn’t follow the same rules as places where they are washed and fed by the sun’s first shimmer.
Our bare feet hit the wood floor, and a tanned hand pulls the heavy shade away. The eyes adjust, and afterwards, you do not see the sun at all, but the kingdom it alights.
The rolling hills that lead to the sea. The mountain range fortifying that blessed land from behind. The greenhouse built with the gentle Austrian's hands, and the baby trees held high with stick and string. The vines are pregnant with grapes ready to slide in between your teeth.
Your mouth finds mine for a morning kiss and the day begins.