Sunrise banjo and Saturday coffee

Woke up to the smell of coffee and Lucinda Williams on the turntable. Poured two cups—one for Wyatt, one for the banjo that waits in the corner of my classroom—and practiced a slow, low alto hum until the light leaned in like it wanted to learn the song.

At the farmer’s market a man with calm eyes asked about my strap and joked about capo jealousy; he left a little note that read, "play me something honest." Wyatt called during the walk home with his goofy laugh and the kind of aftercare that makes mornings feel like a promise. Today looked like good coffee, a borrowed chord, and being chosen all over again.