We live this April in the midst of what I call outrageous grey, enduring countless days this winter and spring of fog 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!
It states on the package of seeds that dahlias thrive in six to eight hours of direct sunlight. Maybe I shall pour vitamin D drops directly into their soil.
I look tentatively outside at the edges of the porch. I fear being dive bombed by angry robins.
8am. All is quiet out there. I notice one weak strand of nesting material hanging over the lip of the window and white breakfast remains splattered at random all over the dark green arm rests of one of the chairs. Bird salvo.
They’re out there somewhere; hiding in the grey. Perhaps it is just too dank and cold for them to build today. I knock down the nesting strand with my broom and rattle the wind chimes as a call to arms and for double good measure I stomp back into the house and close the door loudly.
Round two…
690 Saint Paul 