summer so far
daring one of the UPS trucks to turn down our street
last of the spring chard, giving into the heat
anti-pastel campaign in full deployment
feedsack swaddle blankets
more vintage baby clothes, because I can’t stop ever.
I spend a lot of time in bed during the day. The little babies, they like to snuggle and not a whole lot else. I have audio books, real books, that big blue cardigan to knit and the wide, wild internet. My bee hive is a straight shot through the window, and ever since Bill built big beautiful screens for our windows, I can leave the window open and listen to them buzz away and back all morning. When it gets up over 90, it smells like honey wax.
In a cloying stroke of luck, a pair of little red finches built a nest in the crook of a drain pipe by the kitchen. When I’m tired of my bees, I can watch both parents scouring the garden beds and bringing all manner of squirmy things home to the ugliest triplet of baby birds I’ve ever seen. Mama Finch’s world clearly turns on that tiny, squawking axis, naturally to my empathy. Those birds aren’t what they’ll be soon, more noticeably than for all the other things of which that is equally true.