Saturday August 20, 2011

A catbird scolds a feral cat: harsh, descending Nos. Slick with dew, the lanceolate leaves of goldenrod shimmer in the sun like green fish.

3 Comments


  1. Not quite a fog – heavy mist, hanging in shreds between the clotheslines and the dead tree. The sky is obscured and according to my clock the sun is not yet due to rise. This is my birthday, the big 80,. I listen for birds, but my cats have joined me here on the porch. Faintly, from the neighbors’ back yard, we hear the cooing of doves.


    1. Happy birthday, Marian! I gather from the radio there was thick fog around here this morning, too, but I guess we were above it.


Comments are closed.