4.8.16
It is a Friday night, at the end of a week that felt as though there were two more work days packed in.
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It is 71. The the time of year prevent bugs from bothering me. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt, my favorite attire. I’m still amazed to live somewhere that I can dress like this for half the year, or more.
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2 Northern Cardinals, male and female, are perched on the red feeder swaying 3 feet from the grass. They scoot their way around the rim. He trails her, and then she scoots toward him. They face each other. Did they kiss? If not, it was a good imitation.
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I’m writing this on a new table handmade by a man down the street. The blue plastic chair is too low for the table, but I make it work. The night is too gorgeous to complain about my seating.
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The breeze from the southeast (forecasting rain) happily chills me. I go inside to grab my neon green hoodie. I resume my place.
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On the table beside my open notebook, my phone plays an album of Chopin piano etudes.
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Every few minutes I spot a truck or car driving on South Pea Ridge Road, the vehicle working from right to left across the gradually darkening sky.
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Filling the notebook with jottings and observations is easy, is refreshing, is rewarding. The pen feels like an extension of my hand, of my mind.
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The hour that I’m outside I hear more Cardinals than I actually see. And yet I know they’re there.
Plainswriter 