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The cat turned up about three o'clock in the morning. She was limping a bit and repeatedly licked at various places where she'll probably be getting abscesses, but, aside from her tardiness, appeared to have gotten over the emotional trauma of her beating at the paws of the other kitty. She was eager to get indoors, of course, but then she always is. She hasn't shown up yet tonight, so I suspect she'll be arriving late again.
The air tonight feels quite dry as I inhale it. It's going to be a warm night, too. We've reached that arid time of summer, when the fields begin to brown and the oak leaves darken to their deepest green before beginning to turn brown themselves. The sun sets noticeably earlier, and the afternoon light, no matter how warm the day, has a paleness to it. With nightfall the chirps of the remaining crickets are accompanied by the buzz of the first cicadas. The scent of the gardenias, grown a bit cloying as they have aged, seems incongruous as it mingles with the smell of dry grass. It's as though the season can's decide if it wants to live or to die.
But there was certainly life to the afternoon. Dozens of birds of various species gathered in the trees and chirped and warbled and chattered, while bees buzzed and butterflies fluttered. The insects were plentiful in my yard, but the birds kept some distance, probably because the feral cat and her kittens, now growing quite large, were napping in shady spots on my lawn. Only a couple of quick hummingbirds dared raid the trumpet vine's flowers for nectar. The other avians probably had no need to worry. Those cats are so well fed that none of them would be likely to make the effort to catch any birds. I've spoiled the little buggers.
( Sunday Verse )
The air tonight feels quite dry as I inhale it. It's going to be a warm night, too. We've reached that arid time of summer, when the fields begin to brown and the oak leaves darken to their deepest green before beginning to turn brown themselves. The sun sets noticeably earlier, and the afternoon light, no matter how warm the day, has a paleness to it. With nightfall the chirps of the remaining crickets are accompanied by the buzz of the first cicadas. The scent of the gardenias, grown a bit cloying as they have aged, seems incongruous as it mingles with the smell of dry grass. It's as though the season can's decide if it wants to live or to die.
But there was certainly life to the afternoon. Dozens of birds of various species gathered in the trees and chirped and warbled and chattered, while bees buzzed and butterflies fluttered. The insects were plentiful in my yard, but the birds kept some distance, probably because the feral cat and her kittens, now growing quite large, were napping in shady spots on my lawn. Only a couple of quick hummingbirds dared raid the trumpet vine's flowers for nectar. The other avians probably had no need to worry. Those cats are so well fed that none of them would be likely to make the effort to catch any birds. I've spoiled the little buggers.
( Sunday Verse )
