Stepping out the door for the last time

There was the smell of spring in the air,
when I stepped out the door to feed the cat,
even though it’s the last month of winter.

Birds were singing with the vigour of mating,
my bare feet didn’t curl back on themselves,
wishing for shoes before stepping out.

I consciously inhaled the fresh air,
in my green oasis of Punga ferns,
tinged with sea salt from the Cook Strait.

There is nothing like an imminent
departure to heighten the senses.

One more sleep.