May 17, 2020

Perfume in great tides from a cloud of new pink roses. A thrush flew down while I sat on the porch, and he perched on the rim of the planter where I put the peanuts.  He made sure I saw him. He flew away and I got up and got the bag and filled the planter up with peanuts. The local wildlife brag about how well trained I am. The thrushes are not, like the jays, built for opening big seeds, but they persevere.

My leg is now snakeskin, wrinkly and dry and ready to slough off. Hard not to scratch and scratch. Maud rubs up against it, and though it’s normally not even felt, now the sensation is tingly and itchy and provocative.