Not Even a Whisper

Not Even a Whisper

There’s not even a whisper of a breeze this morning. When I stepped out on the deck, the boards under my feet felt warm. Everything is hushed and still, as if nature is holding its breath.

The sun isn’t up yet, but the birds are. Blackbirds have sort of taken over my back yard. There’s a gang of about five. They are welcome, because they eat a lot of pesky insects, but I do wish they had a more charitable attitude. The blackbirds love the bird baths–all three of them. This is fine too, but they aren’t in a sharing frame of mind. A couple of robins look longingly at the water, but the blackbirds have their bluff in on them. A brown thrasher pretends not to be interested, but casts sidelong glances at the solar fountain with its stream bubbling up. Nope. Full of blackbirds. I fill the baths at least three times a day, because the little feathered friends are splashers, and the water that’s left is dirty.

In this kind of weather, I think longingly about winter snow. That’s either a long way down the road or it’s as close as my book shelf. Ned’s first mystery, Moonlight Can Be Murder, had to do with December and snow and a chilly breeze that blew in a mystery.

So, the morning starts–this July 2020. Unlike any other, yet the world turns, the seasons go on. And, just maybe there’ll be a cool breeze that springs up and brings with it the wonderful answer to all the world’s problems.

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: