We are living in what I call ‘outrageous grey’. Countless days this winter and spring of grey and slate and charcoal and lead and concrete. I look at my potted dahlias sitting obediently in the window, doing what they have been instructed to do; reach for the sun! Higher! The package of seeds reads; ‘dahlias thrive in six to eight hours of direct sunlight’. Maybe I should pour vitamin D drops directly into their soil.
I look tentatively outside. I fear being dive bombed by angry robins. 8am. All is quiet on the porch front. I notice there is one weak strand of nesting material hanging over the lip of the window and white breakfast remains splattered all over one of the chairs. An intentional bird salvo if ever I saw one. They’re out there somewhere. Perhaps it’s just too grey and cold for them to build today.
I remove the nesting strand with a swipe from my broom and walk to the end of the porch where I grab hold of the wind chimes and rattle them as a call to arms. Round two…
690 Saint Paul 