As are the blue jays clattering in the aluminum gutters above the porch, searching out morsels from the twigs and leaves that will need to be removed -- or ignored -- depending on energy levels.
And a second flight of Canada geese honked by this morning. I couldn't see them in the clouds and rain, but it was like being greeted by some fellow teen-ager while lounging on the fender of a much-buffed auto ... on Main Street ... on Saturday night ... praying to the very-god of very-gods that that one special girl would materialize out of the mists and be enticed to lounge against the fender as well. The geese knew the game and wished me good hunting, somehow, as autumn closes in.
Why fall should be a 'favorite' season is beyond me. It's just a fact -- fall's my fave ... a swipe of magical Windex and all that artful effort is released. Time to prepare for another time.
I read the news wires and skip over the pundits trying to say something sane about Donald Trump and thanking god for the latest bit of spaghetti on the dining room table. There's Vanessa Redgrave at 80 -- a woman with what my father used to call "sand." Old enough to smile. Old enough for balls. And Ernest Hemingway, another of the 'greats' conflicted by fame ... yearning, yet hoping to appear modest ... and bearing arms ... and somehow sand-less in my mind.
Time to make time for a new time. Either one is preferable to more newsworthy disquisitions.