Nesting Day

It is maddening that the very act of sweeping sends feathers and dust airborne, no matter how gently I move the broom. I make a second and third pass to collect the stragglers. As much as I adore the winter, I look forward to the day we pull the plastic sheeting from the windows so we can mop the floors again.

The English ivy didn't survive sharing an overcrowded pot with two geraniums. I denuded the dried stems of its leaves, hoping it might be encouraged to try again, but I'm not holding my breath. The irony is that I greatly dislike geraniums and I keep tending that pot out of a stubborn refusal to neglect any plant in my care.

I've argued with people who tell me that eating animals is cruel, because I can't believe that plants do not experience suffering when cultivated en masse in order to feed cities full of hungry humans. Pity the grass that cannot run away when it is grazed; pity the deer that cannot escape the jaws of a wolf; pity the wolf that is shot from a helicopter; pity the man who does not understand.

The sky turns rapidly between blue and falling snow. I don't worry about leaving eggs on the counter because the refrigerator is not much colder than the kitchen.

15 February 2014 13:04