For Today
I was going to write about Cow's Couch, but I'm just not there today.
The light is that perfect sort of movie set haze at the moment, and I keep staring out into the yard. The chickadee that is nesting under the deck is pecking the ground no doubt trying to catch all the ants that live in the daisy patch. I pulled last year's stems out two days ago and the fresh new leaves are erect having recovered nicely my attack with the rake. There is still a pile of yard debris that needs to be tossed down the hill to decompose, but its full of poison ivy. Maybe tomorrow. Today is not a yard work day.
I need to shower and put on presentable clothing. Well, at least presentable from the waist up. Covid fashion mores don't require nice pants. In truth, it doesn't require pants at all. That's fitting really. Sitting here, during a pandemic, my life is only half right at the moment. Everything inside the house is right. We cook and clean, play and eat, move and rest. Outside is more problematic. Outside seems so safe. The yard and woods beyond it are covered in new green. The driveway curves down to the two-lane road with the black mailbox sitting on a pole. Beyond that, there are people. People and a virus. People with a virus? I don a facemask and, often, gloves to venture beyond that.
Tomorrow, the sun will rise and light up the daisy patch, and I will smell the fresh green of Springtime. Tomorrow I will turn on the radio and hear about the world beyond. I will think my thoughts and have my opinions from the safety of the top of the curving drive. For now, though, I am safe. I am in my house, with the people I love.