We are living in what I call outrageous grey. Countless days this winter and spring, endless hours 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. Direct greying air pours in through the glass. Maybe I shall pour vitamin D drops into their faltering soil.
I step tentatively outside onto our porch. I fear being dive bombed by angry robins; those miscreants who have been busy building nests and forts on top of my large window ledge. 8am. All is quiet along the front edge of the house. There is one weak strand of nesting material hanging over the lip of the window and…a cascading shower of white breakfast remains all over one of the chairs and flowered cushion. A bird salvo.
They’re out there somewhere. Perhaps it’s just too grey and cold for them to build today. I swipe down the few strands of stems from off the ledge, remove the mess from the edge of the broom and stomp up to the door, not before stopping to grasp and rattle the wind chimes as a call to arms.
Round two…
690 Saint Paul 