It is cool this morning and I have the doors open to let the air and light into the house. Fall's sweet first kiss is upon us.
The sky is that shade of blue. That washed-five-hundred-times Levi's shade of blue. Paul Newman's eyes shade of blue.
The pinecone lilies are turning red.
The crickets are singing leisurely, languidly.
I am here and have eaten two fresh eggs and might defrost the tiny refrigerator I keep in my kitchen where I store grains and beans and so forth so that the critters don't get in them. I can barely close it now and have been planning to do this for a month at least. Today may be the day.
Whatever I do today, I am going to do it in the style of the crickets. Leisurely. Languidly. I feel bereft of energy, of the desire to do anything at all, to be honest.
Like the chickens, dappled and drowsy and ready for sleep.
Although not especially feeling groovy.