The Bugle Sounds

It's 5 o'clock in the morning and my heart is racing. With flashlight in hand, the hunt is on. There's a quiet stillness in the air that one expects when most of the world is sleeping and yet seeping through the fog, a tempo begins to build. Anticipation is in the air.  Treasures begin to reveal themselves and an imaginary bugle sounds. It's brocante day in the south of France.

Propped perfectly on its side in all its glory, a scalloped zinc window waiting to be plucked.

To market, to market, to find a great home.

And home you shall go to be adorned with a French mattress, embroidered linens and armloads of lace trimmed pillows. There I shall lie in wait to hear the sound of the next bugle.

Salut!

Lynn