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The clouds have broken and the gray swaths are now edged in brilliant white. Late afternoon is full of the green glow of fresh leaves, and bright glints where sunlight hits their shiny tops. Lilacs are at their peak, irises are withering fast, and the camellias are all but gone. The strong-scented gardenias and jasmine are still a promise. It is the middle of spring— a cool and fresh and breezy day declining toward a bright, moonlit night.
On the warm concrete floor of the garage, near where one of the feral cats was lazing, I saw a millipede, its dark carapace gleaming. I touched it with the toe of my shoe, and it slid with a dry rattle. The arthropod was dessicated. I swept it out of the garage with a cloud of dust, as the cat watched indifferently. The carapace went into a patch of oxalis beside the driveway, where it can disintegrate in peace. I wondered if the slow millipede had been caught on the desert of sun-warmed cement mid-journey and the heat had dried it to death, or if perhaps it had just been very old and ready to die anyway.
I pulled a few foxtails from the front lawn, but the bees were out in force, and I've found that busy bees are best left undisturbed so I returned indoors. There I found that Portia was sunning herself on a narrow windowsill, quite content to soak up rays, and not demanding lap time. Now I get to use the computer without the annoyance of having a cat on my lap. Thanks, sunny afternoon. Come again tomorrow.
On the warm concrete floor of the garage, near where one of the feral cats was lazing, I saw a millipede, its dark carapace gleaming. I touched it with the toe of my shoe, and it slid with a dry rattle. The arthropod was dessicated. I swept it out of the garage with a cloud of dust, as the cat watched indifferently. The carapace went into a patch of oxalis beside the driveway, where it can disintegrate in peace. I wondered if the slow millipede had been caught on the desert of sun-warmed cement mid-journey and the heat had dried it to death, or if perhaps it had just been very old and ready to die anyway.
I pulled a few foxtails from the front lawn, but the bees were out in force, and I've found that busy bees are best left undisturbed so I returned indoors. There I found that Portia was sunning herself on a narrow windowsill, quite content to soak up rays, and not demanding lap time. Now I get to use the computer without the annoyance of having a cat on my lap. Thanks, sunny afternoon. Come again tomorrow.
