This morning’s news drifts in like weather—restless, bright, a little cold at the edges. Politics clatters, markets tremble, technology hums its silver promises, and the day opens anyway, pale and ordinary, with light gathering quietly at the window.
Still, the morning asks for gentler things: coffee poured, a bird at the sill, the small grace of an unhurried hour. The world will keep its tumult; the day need not borrow it. Let the headlines pass through like wind through leaves, and keep for yourself the hush that follows.
A Francine Green I May 30, 2026