I had to break the ice on the ducks' water tub this morning. And it wasn't just a thin sheet of ice, either. It is cold out there. Okay, probably not as cold as where many of you are, but for us thin-blooded Floridians, plenty cold enough.
I have nothing I have to do today. No one to take care of. I have an entire day to stay in, stay warm. Well, a friend is bringing over another rooster. She got chicks and can't keep the roosters and so we are taking one. I'll put him in the coop today and keep him there for awhile. And then...no more birds will be accepted at the Moon Shelter For Redundant Fowl. Seriously. Seventeen birds?
Despite the day ahead of me with no obligations I am feeling anxious. My antidepressant prescription has almost run out and I haven't heard from the pharmacy who is supposed to call my doctor to get it renewed. How's that for irony? And there are other things going on. Nothing huge. And maybe part of it is the horror going on in the world but there is always horror going on in the world. We are supposed to go to Apalachicola this weekend and although that is supposed to be fun and it will be fun, it causes me to feel apprehensive. It takes so little to do that. Any break from my routine (rut) and I get jangly and buzzy in the blood. Or maybe it's all just me. Maybe it's bad chemicals and a brain that got fucked up when I was a kid. Or maybe when I was a baby. Or maybe while I was still inside my mother. Who knows? Not me.
I just know I hate it. I feel crippled. I feel less-than.
Anyway, Kelly came by and brought the rooster. I'm not sure it IS a rooster. He or she is only four months old. A big baby. And what an astounding looking bird!
He or she looks like a chicken that arose from the brush of Pablo Picasso.
But here we are with one more chicken (I am almost certain it's a chicken) which is going to have to find its way into the flock. I am thinking that if it is a rooster, perhaps we should name him Mick Jagger. Mick is definitely a colorful bird, a strut-strut rooster. Or if it's a hen, we could call her Brenda which is what Keith and Charlie Watts used to call Mick behind his back. Although Mr. Moon's sister is named Brenda and I am not sure she'd appreciate that.
Whatever we name this bird, I hope to make it feel safe, to keep it healthy and well.
Ah well. Here I am, ruminating over nothing, trying to keep my buzzy blood from boiling up. Should I get back in bed and read? Sit in front of the TV and knit? Actually do some housecleaning?
I don't know. It is as calm and peaceful in my house as it could be anywhere in the world, the light filtering in through the windows, the cat asleep on the chair beside me, the heat purring through the vent, the muted sound of the birds chattering from outside.
And for no reason whatsoever, I want to cry. If I had a mommy, I would call for her as Gibson does his mommy, or for me if she is not around.
"I need you," he says.
We all need, don't we?
Air, water, food, music, love, peace, warmth, shelter, safety, work to do to make us feel fulfilled, to feel needed, good books to read.
My goddam antidepressants. Etc.