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Countdown continues, keys on way. A day of housekeeping and cooking, vacuuming the upstairs vacuuming then dusting the downstairs baking frozen chocolate chip cookies making stock from frozen chicken carcasses making a kale chicken sausage pasta dish all while depending on where I was listening to KZE or watching episodes of Mad Men Season 4.
Made pesto, from fresh basil leaves and other great stuff, garlic, walnuts, EVOO, parmesan, to bringdown.
Worked out to L&O-SVU this morning at nine post-breakfast (strawberry pancakes), many pots on the stove already on the go in my cooking fest.
Back from a walk now, around here. Tree frogs ringringringring-ing, background noise in the surround as I walked. Are these lilliputian ringers (like a tiny Salvatian Army Xmas brigade) frogs? Do they live in trees? Possibly it's an insect. But no, I'm thinking - tree frogs, ever invisible, ever audible, just this time of year.
I'm in one of those moods where I'd rather be communicating with you in some mode other than tapping keys. Birds tweet outside, it's a mellow hour. A car door slams. The birds stop tweeting. I heard a cardinal on my walk sing wheat wheat wheat, not so much tutoyering. I wonder if that's a gender difference in cardinal calls? Don Draper cardinal, says it all with appreciative eyes as he lifts a glass to his lips, hey tu tu tu...
Darling, feeling close to you, but uninspired in the tapping department. Even Mr. J.A. says he doesn't write a poem every day. (Not that I do either, or aspire to.) But sometimes, oh just sometimes, I don't wish to use words, bah!, cast them aside for the moment, for kisses, for hugs, for lying with you in the night, our eyes adjusted to darkness, talking to you, stroking your face, hearing your murmur, my murmur, sometimes in two different tongues, but always the possibility of the same.
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