I woke up to the sound of rain falling this morning which is never a bad sound to wake up to. It was so sweet and perfect that it made me feel a little disappointed in myself for moping around Sunday afternoon, grumbling about the cold. Then I remembered that the cord on my little cultivator broke yesterday while we were trying to start it and before I knew it, I was lying in bed wishing for a complete do-over. I suppose today is the do-over. You get a new do-over every new day that you wake up, don't you?
The dogs were milling around the backdoor. I put Slip's winter jacket on over his "Rock Star" wife beater, not because of the cold but because I can't imagine he enjoys peeing outside while rain is falling on his thin skinned back. He's a trooper and he bobbled out gingerly into the rain soaked yard.
Beagle wanted out, too. I opened the door a second time and unceremoniously commanded, "Out! Potty outside!" She's quicker than you'd guess for a pudgy little specimen of her breed. She skirted away from me and trotted low to the ground back to her safe-place.
I looked out the kitchen window and could see that the chickens desperately wanted out. At least Tiny did. He has rules about his coop and will only use it for sleeping, eating and for producing copious amounts of poop. I've learned through observation that sexing it up with the ladies is an out of coop activity. It would explain why the hens are hesitant to exit the little enclave. Deep in their little chicken brains they know that not only is the coupling to take place in the yard, it is to take place first thing in the morning, every morning. The only girl who seems to delight in this is Lucy who will criss-cross in front of Tiny as he walks through the yard. She's complicated in more ways than one.
I look out the window and see that the garden area is mowed but not tilled, there are beds to construct and potato towers to make. It will have to wait. My fear is that somehow it won't wait for me, somehow it won't get done. How many weekends do I have left? Forty years of weekends, I hope. Looking out over the cemetery and thinking of yet another beautiful diva passing away at my very age, 48, has all of these heavy thoughts swimming too close to shore. Well, it's my own fault. I went to bed with this song rolling around in my head and it's made me melancholy. Yesterday was so full of promise, it was so young and beautiful. Weren't we all?
Comments