I never intended to stop writing, for I like to write and wish I were better at it. The last entry was the end of October, 2017; now we are at the beginning of March, 2018. I h ad to glance at the ve all calendar hanging before me to see whether it was 2018 or 2118. Truly, though 2118 does not look right.
Well. One of the problems is pain and the fact that almost everything hurts and what doesn't hurt doesn't work, a sentence not original with me, I think, though it is true and still makes me smile. Already my neck hurts, my hands hurt, and my legs and feet hurt. In addition I burned my finger on my right hand taking our spaghetti supper, our Schwan's spaghetti supper out of the oven. Hogwbever, I think I shall leave hogwbever on the table though I was trying to write: however. However, it is the absolute delight I take in the details of God's great universe that brings me to try again. Four nights ago at dusk I had gone down to the street to check on the trash or to add something since early Tuesday is pickup day. The fused disks in my neck keep me looking down as I walk, and I had walked, head down, to good neighbor Gin's driveway, 7 Fairway, and back to 3. When I got to our driveway, I heard what sounded like the flapping of canvas and I looked up. The sky was full of large, very large black birds. So large. You wouldn't believe how large they were. Probably the largest anyone has ever seen. Believe me. Huge birds.
Okay. But Potus is such an ass and his style is so tempting to mimic. In any case, the birds were magnificent turkey buzzards, looking for a roosting place in our white pines and silver maple. There must have been 40 to 50 birds, jostling for places in the trees. They seemed to be coming from the south two or three together, gliding smoothly and silently toward our lot. Mary and I enjoy them, dark omens of our own pending mortality, I suppose, especially when we open the curtains in the morning and find one or two sitting on the balcony rail. I stood at the bottom of the Drive for 5 or 10 minutes until I heard the backdoor slide open and Frollie, our big-hearted Jack Russell terrier rush out. She had seen the birds and apparently thinks her task is to protect us from the threat from above. For some reason, her intense barking scares them away.
There were other things that day and since worth examining, but this morning I shall call it quits and go to bed. Today's Psalm is 66 (March 1), tomorrow's is 67. A recommended book is Malcolm Guite's "The Word in the Wilderness: A Poem a Day for Lent and Easter." Guite not only starts with an apt poem, but he also discusses the poem in two to three pages. He is quite (ha) good and insightful. The book would be good reading any time of the year actually, though it is meant for Lent.