April 3rd, 2004

bazille_summer scene

The Short Day Looms

Once the smell of power mowers had dissipated, the scent of freshly mown lawn was very pleasant. It has lingered all the moonlit night, even to the pink and lavender twilight that precedes dawn. Tomorrow, down will be one hour later by the clock. Not a day too soon, as far as I'm concerned. Longer evenings and longer nights both please me. It might be time for the years first batch of iced tea tonight.

I've been spending less time here lately. This is due to four things: I have recently had more real world tasks to do; I have been spending more time with the cat, since I'm not sure she'll be around much longer; the enjoyable weather leads me to spend as much time as possible outdoors; and I've been using more of Sluggo's limited periods of functionality to do things offline, such as transferring goatloads of files to CD ROM, as there will be very little time to do those things once the really hot weather arrives. This is one of the reasons I haven't gotten around to doing more of my iconage posts. Eventually things will get back to what passes for normal.

I came across this. It has been there quite some time, but I never thought to look for it. Maybe it's time I bought a rename token. I've never been entirely satisfied with the name, anyway. I prefer my handle, which thus far retains its portmanteau-ish uniqueness, and would have gone with that, had I thought of it ten minutes sooner.

caillebotte_man at his window


Morning's birds fluttered the air, drew fanciful patterns of flight, found the five wires and, alighting, arrayed themselves into a chord they sang. Then they dispersed, describing the swoop of branches and the flapping of leaves, tracing an invisible forest which entangled the sky.

Mid-day's birds failed to wake me.

Afternoon's birds dozed, or sought standing pools of water, or caught sparkling drops flung lightward by lawn sprinklers. They rustled the bushes and pecked the sun-warmed lawn.

Evening's birds watched the sunset, twittered, hunted early-rising crickets unwise enough to chirp, and ignored the cats who, in their old age, prefer their food less vigorous and served in a bowl.

Night's birds are emitting high pitched calls, as piercing as the white light of the nearly full moon. Now, day's birds are still and silent, sleeping, but the thought comes to me that, had my ears sufficient sensitivity, and were the other sounds of night stilled, I could hear the brush and woodland vibrate with their thousands of tiny beating hearts.