Lilacs and lily-of-the-valley scents waft up higher than the humid air and sweat bees. The air is quite still behind the earthen wall next to me. Here the bridge noise is muffled and hidden from view.
Flat boats putter up the river current. I like it when they move slowly by. Bass boats make their laps around the reservoir banks. Men toss their lined rods, loosing lures in tree branches.
When I write in longhand, I don't have to worry about typing. Oh, sure, typing is good too. Alas, the days of pen and paper. But I digress:
Little fox squirrel chases bigger grey squirrel. He's always feisty, always defending his territory.
The goldfinch; yellow, black, so cheerfully colored, he and his mate flit among the new light green growth of the Douglas Fir. Insects or tree bits - I don't know what he and she find there, other than these snacks and a grand view of the river.
Last night's brush burning, I mean wiener roast, was surreptitious, contraband. Secret. No open burning allowed. Still, here between the creek and the street is no-man's land: no street crews come by to pick up the piles of brush here. So burn it we did, the fire drawing neighborhood children like moths to flames. They howled and tossed branch after branch of downed wood onto the pile.
Grown-ups cracked jokes about fines, threatening calls to the fire marshall. Big tough guys in little spandex tights and helmets joined the rubber-neckers out for their evening bike rides. Heavenly father, please let your Grace descend upon us for burning if it bothers people with allergies. Amen.
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