Dull

[rejectomorph]

My mundane Sunday task has been completed, and now I can begin devouring my acquisitions. In fact I've already devoured a cinnamon roll. It is helping to keep the chill away. There's a lot of chill, too. I might need another cinnamon roll before long— but I should really wait until after dinner.

One would think that spending two hours out of the house I'd have seen something of interest, but I didn't. Unless a storm comes along, nothing much changes in January. Each day is much like the last, and the landscape is monotonous. There's not a flower in sight yet, and everything that isn't green is brown. The most dramatic moment of the day came early this morning when a crow flew over, cawing. Since then, nothing. Even the feral cats offered no distraction. All they did was sleep all day.

The thin crescent moon looked nice, though. Too bad it settled behind the pines so soon.




Sunday Verse

The Real Work

by Wendell Berry


It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.