It's gray and drizzling here today and I've already cleaned up chicken poop from the back porch where the white chickens (always the white chickens) have come in to finish up what's left in Luna's bowl of food. Jack sits on the kitchen porch, watching the rain come down while Maurice is choosing to stay inside, perching in the hallway, content to observe and drowse there.
There are hundreds of tiny birds at the feeder- finches and wrens, I think- and Mick stands beneath it, calling his hens to him but they are ignoring him, having decided to scratch in more protected areas. The cardinals joust for space among the little birds, scarlet against this gray day.
I'm not sure I feel that well today and quite frankly, may spend some of my time cozied up in my bed, finishing Alexandra Fuller's Leaving Before The Rains Come.
What a powerful writer she is. If you've never read her, I can't recommend her enough. Start with her amazing first memoir Don't Let's Go To The Dogs Tonight and go from there.
So. It's good Friday. I don't have it in me to do an Easter rant. I'd rather just eat chocolate eggs. Not that I have any. But still. Poor old Jesus. I hope he knows that I don't expect him to die for my sins. I truly don't think I've done anything bad enough to deserve crucifixion. Nor do I desire to live forever, especially not in the arms of certain family members.
I'd rather talk about the Rolling Stones.
There they are, arriving last night on the island of Cuba.
I just read a great article from the Wall Street Journal which says what I've been trying to say so clumsily about the historical meaning of the Stones playing in Havana.
Well, thunder is rolling from the south, the redwing blackbirds have joined the birds at the feeder and if I get back in bed, perhaps Maurice or Jack will come in for a cuddle and a scratch.
Happy Friday, y'all.