Nothing really about books or writing today. It’s Sunday. Clouds are building high, with thunder muttering behind them. We’ve already had a good sprinkle. It’s not as hot as it has been the past few days so I’ve headed out on the deck with my laptop and the book I’m reading currently, Boy’s Life by Robert McCammon. I’m watching the birds, and trying to keep the squirrels from eating all the bird seed. We have a wealth of cardinals and doves hanging out at the moment. I just saw our rat friend rushing from the yard into the high grass that borders it. I couldn’t tell if he had seeds in his cheeks but I’m betting he did.
Life is so amazing, so elegant. A chickadee sits in a nearby tree pecking open a sunflower seed. How does such a tiny thing survive? Blue Jays dart in and away, so blue against the mass of greenery that fills the woods not twenty feet from where I sit. Nature paints with both delicate and bold strokes, and the human mind, itself a product of nature, responds.
There is no steady wind, but errant breezes stir first one tree and then another, giving them for the moment the power of motion. Those same breezes bring me melodies reaped from the throats of dozens of different species. I hear a rasping call that I cannot place. And I know, there is great mystery left in this world.
