Cobwebs float by on the breeze. Cackles and chills stutter out from passing birds. A plane drones by. Carpenter bees hit the corners of the house. An Agatha Christie lies facedown on the table, waiting to be carried out and finished in the garden. The tent lies by the door, ready to be set up on the tiny lawn for outdoor camping tonight.
Yesterday I made hummingbird sugar water and put out the feeder, and last night I dreamt a purple hummingbird came and fed. (we do not have purple hummingbirds here.)
Ideas for breakfast are beginning to drift into my head. A busy day ahead of me. I just checked my library account and found I have nothing checked out, whatsoever. Odd, for me. I remember once, when I was a teenager, when the librarian gasped in shock because I had 28 items checked out. (Shouldn't she have been happy that I was reading so much?)
Nowadays I'm working my way through those 24 Agathas, along with a sprinkling of Gerald Durrell, a sliver of the Tao Te Ching, and a wedge of Pablo Neruda.
I better go make breakfast.