confluence

 The warmth and the light of summer is a thing of great beauty, when compared with the icy darkness of winter. Even the sound of rain falling on leaves as heard  through the open window is a pleasant reassuring sound.

The dutiful alarm sounds at five minutes past six, just as the carefully made breakfast is finished. Let it play its melody until the previous paragraph is done, then switch it off. And now it is hard to know what to write about. 

The two batteries for the keyboard have been recharged, if the green light on the charging appliance is to be believed. This dusty machine is on a shelf beside the typewriter that is purely there for decoration. There is an old sock on the floor beside it, left over from the son's younger days, it should have been thrown out long ago. Use it to wipe the dust from the charger, before replacing the charger in the shelf. Throw the sock into the nearest waste bin. Then return to the table and the computer and continue writing, the problem of not really knowing what to write about unsolved.

The thought is to take a train journey to Dingolfing, and to walk from there to admire the countryside seen the day before yesterday in more detail. These are the hills and the valleys at the confluence of the Isar and the Danube rivers.