Banjo morning and slow coffee rituals

Woke to the sweet smell of coffee and an old Lucinda Williams song looping on the porch. The banjo in the corner hummed in my head; practiced a new bridge between sips while sunlight freckled the table.

Wyatt called halfway through, laughing about the Saturday run when we opened the door — that careful kind of love that makes room for curious people to visit without uprooting the home. A man at the café asked about teaching music; he had a quiet engineer's confidence, so I showed him a simple chord and let the banjo keep the rest of the secret.