You can’t escape the headlines, although it’s tempting to try. Princes Harry and William are complaining “We will never be normal.” No one will, my friends, no one will. But of course they miss it, live on the surface, look sad, straighten their ties. To give them some credit, I didn’t read past the headlines. The fate of princes and Paris, et cetera, never captured my imagination. Their stories seem like the ever present dog hair on my carpet, irritating waste, waiting to be swept away, but perhaps decent if applied as a fertilizer.
I’ve moved through Crush, past Star Dust, and into Platte River. Amazon loves me lately.
Birds – one American Goldfinch. Common, but gorgeous. The bird feeder also attracts George Cooney, a bunch of mad, tail-shaking squirrels, and towards dusk a herd of rabbits (believe me, that’s what they are.) Everything is getting so tame I imagine one day I will walk out into the yard and the animals will roll over on their backs and demand that I rub their bellies. Stranger things have happened.
Other wildlife – S. announced his house is haunted, and the ghost keeps shaking his bed. S. is taking it all well. He moves to the couch when needed. It’s not exactly a live and let live philosophy, but something along those lines. I’m taking the same approach to the bumble bee nest I uncovered off my patio. Who wants to get in the way of the pollinators, the builders? They’ve gotta do their thing. So I’m stepping around them and so far so good. No stings.