Day 76: More pungent than the scent of fresh-baked bread, heavier than the lap-weighted soul-comfort of a purring cat, more attention-demanding than any puzzle or project, a seasonally-affective day in the Pacific Northwest clings to shrub and window with all the persistence of a stubborn tick and just as welcome. I know my cheery chickadees are out there because I can hear them when the heat pump stops roaring in its hyper-heat voice and the muttering rills of rain subside. Every now and then, a flash of white catches my eye, but I can't tell if it's a 'dee or a junco's tailfeathers. Steller's Jays are crayon smears on the feeders, Towhees indistinct black gobs on the ground below. They might as well be molehills, but for the fact that they move, occasionally casting themselves into the abstractionist blur of the filbert. I suppose I should be glad to be indoors and warm, unlike my feathered friends, but somewhere along the line I was plagued with the ability to recognize that things could be better. I do not readily accept my lot; they do. I wish I was a bird.
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