Sunday Solitude

It’s the last Sunday of the month.

At second glance, it’s the last day of the month.

I hadn’t noticed.

At 11 a.m., the thermometer read 87 degrees.  This time last summer, we had already hit 100.  I’ll happily accept 87 and smile over it.

Last night while putting the sheep and goats to barn-bed, there was an amazing cloud bank in the northern sky that ran east to west as far as I could see.  The lightning flashed and danced miles away. The fragrance of the oncoming rain was so heavy I believe I could've spooned it from the air like ice cream.

It never rained.

The back porch has been a welcoming retreat this morning ‘til late this afternoon…..

…….despite the accompanying Red-winged Blackbirds.

My least favorite of the winged species, they hide in droves [like a collective conspiracy] and wait for me to come outside to squawk and cackle at me.

Indeed, they do.

Jake, the man-dog, is sleeping on the patio beneath the porch; his presence made known only by his occasional exhales.

The view of the chair on the dock is rather tempting from my vantage point here on the back porch.  As sure as I move into it the breeze will cease and the resident gnats will hijack my thoughts.

I can hear our infamous and all too handsome Kingfisher working the creek northward.  The cricket and cicada choirs have quieted with the heat of the day setting in.

There is a single Red-winged Blackbird out in the yard who is determined to impede on my thoughts – he and his flittering girlfriend.

Still, the chair calls and I weigh my options as I notice the dark clouds moving in from the west.  I may as well as I just realized that my morning coffee is sitting here cold and long ignored.

As the late afternoon settles in, the rain arrives escorted by

ever.

so.

gentle.

Thunder.

It’s a moment calling for Norah.

Melancholy.

HKJ

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