Coffee under a birch tree
I simply felt like having my coffee under the birch tree that stands in a glade in our backyard. The chickens rushed to the edge of their enclosure and stood there, eyeing me sideways in their ridiculous monocular way, unable to believe I was not ascending the upper terrace to bring them something: beef fat trimmings, a pear core, or a ground apple. However much I contribute to their absurdly lavish-for-chickens existence, I can never begin to repay them for the favor of their acceptance of it.
My Cat yowled at the back door because I was out and he was not; but really, he yowled because I can be out and he cannot. Being out is an existential distinction he cannot grasp, and if he could, he would not accept.
For the Cat is one to scorn his destiny with much yowling and extension of claws. I was, for the moment, simply one to drink coffee under a particular birch tree, without expectation and without scorn, and really, without any noteworthy thought at all.