The sale has the usual assortment of kitchen items, a few discarded toys and kids' books, a small, outgrown chair, some outmoded casual clothing, knick-knacks, a car seat, a kids' helmet, an old microwave oven, an obsolete CRT television, something that looks like it might be a printer, and, at the front of the driveway, a puffy, black, fake-leather love seat that looks like it would be hell to move. Right now there's an old guy sitting on it while his wife pokes around in the merchandise on the tables.
I find the whole thing rather depressing, but Portia has found it fascinating. After watching from the windowsill in my room for along time, she insisted on going outside, and now she's observing the passing parade from the end of the walk near the mulberry tree. Sooner of later she'll probably go over and take a closer snoop during a lull in the activity. I just hope she doesn't try to turn some small item into a cat toy, or toss up a hairball on that love seat.
When I let Portia out I was struck by how many birds are singing this morning. The sound is everywhere. There must be over a hundred birds of various species ensconced in nearby trees. I can only assume that something tasty has just become available— bugs, nuts, berries, autumn fruits. Maybe there are some of those fermented berries that get birds soused. Portia could end up with something to distract her from the yard sale. Drunken birds are easier to catch than sober birds.
The day is warming up nicely, and it's about time I opened the windows. There are a handful of cirrus clouds floating about, and by evening they will probably have thickened. I hope they don't thicken too much, of for too long. Orionids!