A small breeze plays with leaves pressing them against the fence, dancing them across the yard, flying them like kites, landing them in other places. Soleil paints a changing vision on the windows.

     A Blue-headed Vireo sings into the frost-painted morning. Now at my desk, blinds closed, coffee cooling I'm still able to see the outline of trees playing peekaboo with the sun. The three have returned to dreams. Ruger will not sleep deeply now lying in the hall opening his eyes when I move, wagging his tail when I look at him.

     A Tufted Titmouse and I conversed about the sparkling morning, one of us happy to see gathered in rays of sunlight, mosquitoes. Evergreens hold onto their diamonds, the fence her glass beads waiting for Soleil to take them.

     A trace of rain softly this morning, doesn’t fill low places in the lawn. Through the fence Ruger watches a turkey deviate from the unyielding path, enter the woods disappear as if she had never been here.

     Rain streaks windowpanes blurring my view of a quiet dark morning. One Phoebe pays a quick visit to the fence looking to see if I’m at my desk. Tomorrow: “Very windy; rain and drizzle; winds will be locally damaging.” Last night I folded the light-enough-to-take-flight picnic table just a few days ago introduced to the deck. When it returns, it will be secured with zip ties; I can’t keep bringing the outside inside. The rocking chair never left the house. Secured to the balusters, the make-believe tree that lost one leaf through the winter must continue to fend for itself.

     Glowing yellow graces the sky spreading into shades of orange, pink, blue; timing being one of the variables of seeing.

     The Phoebe pair seemed annoyed when we greeted the frosty morn, me doing a quick step surprised by the slippery deck; —didn’t see from where they flew but silhouettes on the blinds suggest the beginnings of a nest atop the covered rain gutter.

    Where dogs don’t run, where I seldom am brave enough to walk, grass between the fence and boulders transitions brown to green. Playing his flute, a Brown Thrasher sits on the fence, an echo is heard from the woods. A pair of Phoebes flit about, prefer to sit on the solar light considering the flat top as a nesting site.

     Slumped over the rail and narrow picnic table, the green canvas hosts raindrops. Yesterday when I moved the canvas tarp, acorns, salted sand and tiny rocks bounced to the deck I’d recently swept. I did not fold the waterproof tarp before dark as planned. I grasped a thick hemmed edge; let it quickly drop not because of a cramp in my hand. Maybe we both were stunned seeing my fingers so close as I disturbed a Brown Recluse. The tarp will have to be folded—not today; not in the rain—in the sun wearing gloves.

     Blinds closed against the sun, my monitor faces the window, not a good design. Perhaps I should wear sunglasses to write or begin the day before the sun.

     It rained hours ago, the deck almost dry from winds proclaimed to begin in another two hours. Although small craft and wind advisories remain, the gale watch is no longer posted. There is a Red Flag Warning. Some bird, not the Heron, perhaps a raven flew through clashing trees as I marked another celebration of life with a photo.  

     Nothing splashed on the wet deck or the tarp covering plastic bins. The three ventured into their fenced-in land, Zayne looking towards the pond as if watching something. Thursday, I thought I saw the Great Blue Heron but could not distinguish him through my camera lens. Friday, the second time we went out, our commotion sent the Heron into flight. I didn’t have the camera then. Looking into bare trees, I see no signs of a nest, at a minimum of 20” it would be hard to miss.