Gorgeous morning. Got the sprinkler on the garden, hoping to see beans and cucumbers breaking dirt soon. Hens, ducks, birds all busy and chattery.
Elvis still alive. He's back in the little chick coop, resting.
For my breakfast I ate: one piece of bacon, one egg, one half of a piece of toast. Because that was the last piece of bread in the house.
I suppose I should go to the store.
I am floating in sunshine, birdsong, smell of sun on dirt.
It is April. I am no fool. Or perhaps I am. Even if I am a fool, I am not fool enough to ignore this springing forth of life, this color, this air, this sky, this pocket of time I occupy this very second where suddenly, the new leaves of the oaks, the pecans, have given this yard a shade of green which is magical and like the forest and the sea, all at once, a place of great and quiet beauty in which to dwell.
It is almost too much. But not quite.