Lazy

The day is not really hot, but heat accumulates in certain places. The feral cats avoid walking on the cement. The glazing in my south-facing windows is hot to the touch. Heated air ripples along the roof like a mirage of a stream. But then not everything is hot. There are mild, vagrant breezes that make strands of spider silk ripple and catch the sunlight, waving like improbably long, thin banners set flying to welcome spring. Butterflies are visiting the lilacs, and dozens of birds are chirping, warbling, chuckling, or screeching according to their wont.

One of my feral cats, perhaps enervated by the rise in the temperature, is lying prone on the shady grass next to the water bowl from which he is drinking. I feel more like the cat than not. I'd like to just laze about with a cool drink, but there are things to be done. There is laundry, and the bright day is revealing how dirty the windows have become, so I'm thinking I ought to wash them while I can see them. Then dinner will have to be made. Had spring not already arrived prematurely (and intermittently) in January and February, I might have more energy for these tasks. But this warm day seems almost anticlimactic, and fails to produce the spurt of ambition that spring's arrival usually brings. It's still March, and I'm already in lazy summer mode.

Feeling a bit peckish. Where did I put those lotuses?