September 1, 2021
Happy Birthday to me. Rain from the disintegrating hurricane makes the day pearly and melancholy, as I rather like it. Bach on Pandora.
Cheerful Michael Smith is dead. He was two years younger than I.
Miraculous thing: my yard was filled with bird, eight or nine species I could count, not many of each, but all boiling through the grass like some choice seed was just now coming to ripeness– a couple of kinds of woodpeckers, including two great pileateds, jays, flickers and robins colored so that you knew they were this spring’s babies. Some blessedness had descended on the garden. On the other side, near the fence, turkeys ran with their necks extended, making piteous calls. Don’t know what they were running from. They bunched up in the front yard to graze the cosmos seeds.
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