In This Wise

Today is not a day for writing. Early this morning, I ran to the fig tree and back. Later, we took a long walk by the river, where, high in two leafless cottonwood trees just starting to bud, we saw big, rugged osprey nests. After lunch, I raked the mossy front sidewalk, careful not to dislodge the shepherd’s purse that has sprouted there. Then we walked through the neighborhood, talking about nothing in particular and enjoying the bright dandelions, and finally came in just as it was beginning to rain. I suppose I can write about that — and let the writing end as the day itself began — with thanks for my good fortune, and the urge to go out and run again.

March 30, 2023. Evening.

[ 1704 ]