Sometimes, the beauty of an evening just causes me to write. Like tonight, it’s gorgeous here in northeastern Maryland. At almost 7pm it’s still warm enough for me to sit on the back deck with my laptop and look at the trees as they bud.
I just saw a blue jay skate by on the air, whistling, not cawing like I usually hear them when they’re near the feeder.
Two squirrels are leaping around in teh branches of the trees, reminding me of the monkeys I’ve seen in jungles (on TV).
A chickadee is perched, at this moment, on my birdfeeder, reminding me to feed him. I’m only 10 feet away as he flits by.
The trees are that green is so beautiful on buds and so ugly in hospital wards. Some of them even sparkle in a a rusty red.
The air isn’t quiet – a dog barks, a kid calls – but this is the kind of sound that I call silence, where nothing demands my attention except the rustle of the stream down the hill, just visible through the trees.
The chickadee is back.
And then the phone rings . . . .