Monday, April 21, 2025, 32* Frost
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.
Wings in shadow on the window must be the phoebe who has been talking this morning. In all the clatter and clashing of yesterday I saw the Heron when evening came, fly away; again, no camera in my hand. This must be the feeding rather than the nesting ground. A mourning cloak butterfly has been with us for a few days igniting the fascination of Zayne.
When I go through, the three want to be on the other side of the gate. It’s a wonder they haven’t figured out the latch now that the stiffness of new has worn, a nose should be able to lift it.
Artificial flowers would brighten the deck, but only feed my spirits, not others following colors knowing some present sustenance. Rocks in crooked alignment edge what probably was the path to the pond. I can imagine children scampering over moss-covered leviathans, hiding behind them, throwing rocks into the pond until mother calls them.
No place for an ancient to walk balancing with one on a leash, two others running. Too difficult to walk down into the bottom of a boulder hole and up the other side tangled roots exposed by excavation of leviathans commandeered to secure our fenced-in island. Everyone (except the three) would appreciate the diversion of a mystical garden.
Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.
Song of Solomon 2:12
Art: LJ Austin
