Aside from them being a reminder that we are in the third year of drought, recent days have been a perfect delight. Birds have been singing, and splashing in the water bowl they share with the feral cats; the gray cat has lazed all afternoon by the fence, where the vivid green fir tree drips bright light; and the small purple flowers of some low, leafy, volunteer plant have begun to fleck the lawn.
The cool air has been fresh and clear until dusk, when wreaths of smoke will begin curling from chimneys and stove pipes as the temperature suddenly drops. That's when the first flock of migrating waterfowl are apt to appear, heading north as the waxing crescent moon brightens. I keep thinking it's later in the day and later in the year than it is. Certainly these days belong to March, or even April.