This morning

"You need to write a children's book about weed," Nance tells me as I sip coffee.

"It would be great! Set it on a screwed up island where there is a land dispute. A marsh rabbit is growing pot in his yard but his neighbor the marsh hen wants to put up a fence. The City sharks have granted a permit for the fence. The rabbit is livid but in a cloud of smoke realizes what he must do."

Sometimes I don't have a clue how to respond.

This is one of those times.

"Well," I slowly begin but she is super excited about the emerging plot.

"So as the beavers start building the fence ..."

"There's beavers on this island?" I interrupt.

Stopping in mid-sentence, Nance ponders this.

"I'll keep in mind," I take the opportunity to respond, "but I've already books coming out."

"OH!" she exclaims. "That's great man!" slapping my hand with a high-five.

Standing to leave she strolls to the door and hugs me goodbye and says, "Listen. Keep the idea though. It'd be a great children's book. I don't think there are many about pot."

Shrugging my shoulders, I thank her for the inspiration. There's already a line outside The Breakfast Club and I navigate through them to hop on my bicycle.

I coast down Butler Avenue towards the combat zone. Tybrissa Street is littered with people sitting on benches lost in thought as they take long drags of a cigarette. Some take swigs from bottles wrapped in brown paper bags.  Pelicans fly in V-formation overhead as the sun bubbles out of a glassy ocean shooting lights of pink, purple, red and yellow into a brilliant blue sky.

At the crosswalk beside the Pier, I stop for my morning appreciation of being given another day.

A pretty blond woman is sitting on the rail of the cross walk looking tired and frazzled. She's having an intense conversation in her phone. Seeing me she jumps up crossing one arm across her chest and storms toward the beach now yelling at whoever listening to her.

The beach is full of runners, power walker, couples holding hands, families already setting up for the day and garbage trucks. A large yellow tractor dumps a mountain of yesterday's beer and soda cans into the truck shattering the calm of the morning with the metallic scrapping of aluminum.

Behind them the ocean is peppered with suffers, people on Paddleboards and children playing in the waves. Four Cargo ships are lined up in the channel waiting for the Tug boats to guide them through Savannah.

"Thanks," I say out loud as I push my bicycle off and coast towards the house.

It's time to get to work.

But first I need to check if there are any children's books about Weed.

Maybe there needs to be a new one.