Waffle mixing here soon. I think perhaps coffee may be in order. I started reading Love in the Western World (1940). Twenty pages in the author is introducing his purpose: It’s about passionate love, adultery in contrast to marriage. He will be arguing for marriage.
Only hear crows this morning, and the cats suggesting I move.
Out beyond the house, beyond the debris pile, just past the compost, under the trees, I didn’t see the log was a deer until her ears moved. She’s cleaning herself.
The house is dry today, after yesterday’s bright blue wind, and the sky dawned ominous grey. My head aches from the low humidity, my sinuses from the change in air pressure. Has she chosen our tree for shelter from the coming storm?
Another log with an ear lies under the next tree over. The snow has melted there for breakfast–and here comes another from the yard next door. None are in such great hurry. It’s an early morning still.
This must be their plan for the day. Now there are five here where there is shelter, food, and water.