The baby rabbits spent much of today at the nest’s entrance. I don’t know if they’re too hot in the nest, which lies in a section of the yard that gets very little shade, or if they’re curious about what goes on in the rest of the yard. I expect they’ll begin exploring soon.
The blue moon suits my mood. I’m tired and sluggish, ready to crawl off into some quiet corner and lose myself in a half-edited manuscript, one burdened with rambling paragraphs and boring verbs. It needs dragonflies.
A couple of spiders wouldn’t hurt, either.
Because spiders matter. Even the ones that eat butterflies. (I believe this was a Cloudless Sulfur butterfly.)
I want my story to feel real, so it can’t be all flutter and gleam. It needs sticky strands of web, for tension. And rough surfaces, for texture.
Now, if only I could find a way to add cicadas. Maybe just one. A late summer cicada, laying its eggs under the bark of a pear tree…
I caught a few video clips as the rabbits nursed tonight…
The days are definitely getting shorter, and the yard has changed accordingly. Tired leaves litter the grass. The roses bloom erratically, producing smaller and smaller flowers with less and less scent. Few dragonflies remain, only a handful of Blue Dashers.
Spiderwebs lend the yard an autumn feel, harbingers of Halloween and the brittle months to follow. And there’s a silence, under the muted cricket chorus, that sounds like an echo of winter.
No more robins, no more blue jays, no love-struck doves on the fence. Only an occasional mockingbird, and even they tend to hide from view, flitting through the wax myrtle as if they would rather not be noticed. Or photographed.
So the yard reflects summer’s dwindling hours, despite the lingering heat. And I’m torn between sorrow and anticipation, a permanent state in the last few years. Tomorrow is always exciting, mysterious and unwritten. But today is satisfying, too. As for yesterday? Well, yesterday wasn’t bad at all. In fact, I was kind of sorry to see it go…
I’m ready for fall because this summer has felt relentless. Today’s ninety degrees might sound mild, compared to the year’s earlier high temperatures, but the air is so thick with humidity that I feel out-of-breath. What’s more, the yard’s mosquitoes no longer confine their activity to dusk. They descend in a visible cloud as soon as I set foot outside, and they seem immune to repellents.
Twenty minutes was all I could stand, this afternoon. Then I fled to my office, immensely grateful for the luxury of air-conditioning and fans. Grateful, also, for books and computers and sleepy cats.
And when I say “grateful”, I’m talking about the marrow-deep, guilty gratitude that comes from acknowledging my unearned leisure.
I cannot embrace a purposeless world, one ruled by selfish survival and numb probability. And yet, I can’t deny the powerful evidence of observation. Fate does appear random. Life is decidedly unfair. Very bad things happen to very good people, while very good things have happened to me even though I have done nothing extraordinary. Who am I, to deserve these gifts of comfort and freedom? And what should I do with them?
Rae Spencer 