escorted by thrushes
up the mountainside.
Showing posts with label Sunday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday. Show all posts
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Posted with Blogsy
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Sunday, November 23, 2014
November 23: End of a long weekend together
sun streams in on us
the game's on tv
at the good burrito place
the game's on tv
at the good burrito place
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Sunday, July 27, 2014
July 27 (2): Sunday afternoon
Curled up on the couch next to the cat, reading poetry while the cat eyes a sparrow out the window...
Rainy Sunday--
jazz on the stereo,
sparrow also singing.
Rainy Sunday--
jazz on the stereo,
sparrow also singing.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
April 13: The Masters
Watching golf on TV, immersed in another, much warmer climate...
Golfer about to swing.
Carolina Wren's loud song
fills the green hush.
Golfer about to swing.
Carolina Wren's loud song
fills the green hush.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Sunday, March 4, 2012
March 4: Sunday Morning
Sometimes the day's greatest pleasures can be its simplest ones, like sleeping in a little late and then sitting across from my husband at the breakfast table while he reads and I work on a crossword. He's just boiled eggs, and I've got an awesome sticky bun from Home Kitchen and a big mug of green tea with honey. The cat purrs nearby, hoping for handouts. Still in my flannel PJs, I've got nothing ahead of me planned for the day beyond finishing this puzzle.
Perfect Sunday start:
crossword puzzle, sticky bun.
Paul and cat here too.
Perfect Sunday start:
crossword puzzle, sticky bun.
Paul and cat here too.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
April 4: Easter Sun
As I type, the sun is just dipping below the treeline across the river. Thank you, Sun, for such a lovely holiday! The last rays diffuse through branches, and now I'm seeing spots from trying to maintain eye contact with the blinding orb.
After a lovely Easter brunch with my parents at the Hartstone Inn this morning, my husband and I decided to burn off our strawberry crepes with creme Anglaise, lobster and asparagus quiche, and coconut cake by hiking up Beech Hill. Even with the inevitable breeze at the top, the air still felt like summer. A strange summer, however, with the fields still dry and dead-looking and no leaves on the trees. And still very few birds. All we saw from where we stood were the local pair of ravens, some vultures heading southward, and the ethereal pale shape of a "grey ghost"--a male harrier soaring low over the fields in search of lunch. Curiously, no other hawks, though I'm sure today was another good day for raptor migration. Returning to our car, we saw our first local phoebe silently wagging its tail in a nearby tree. And several local teenagers in short-shorts, tank tops, and flip flops--who could blame them for wanting to pretend summer had arrived, expose that sun-starved flesh?
With our friend Brian, we soaked up some more rays and watched a few more birds at Weskeag Marsh: blue-winged teals and other ducks, an eagle, a great egret trailing lacy breeding plumage, several hysterical-sounding killdeer. The glare on the salt pannes made it difficult to see well. But hard to complain, when sunlight has been so hard to come by.
Finally, at home on a Sunday afternoon, the day of rest, I got my folding chair out of the shed for the first time since last fall and sat on the back porch reading a book until the sun began to hit the treeline. The rushing music of the river muted all other neighborhood sounds except a squirrel scolding from the yard, and I indulged in an hour or so of rare and luxurious relaxation of my favorite kind. And bug-free at that. Good night, Sun.
Real peace is simple:
good Norwegian mystery,*
a patch of sunlight.
*I'm reading Jo Nesbo's The Redbreast. Nesbo is supposed to be Norway's version of Sweden's Henning Mankell, whose noir mystery thrillers I highly recommend to those who enjoy the genre.
After a lovely Easter brunch with my parents at the Hartstone Inn this morning, my husband and I decided to burn off our strawberry crepes with creme Anglaise, lobster and asparagus quiche, and coconut cake by hiking up Beech Hill. Even with the inevitable breeze at the top, the air still felt like summer. A strange summer, however, with the fields still dry and dead-looking and no leaves on the trees. And still very few birds. All we saw from where we stood were the local pair of ravens, some vultures heading southward, and the ethereal pale shape of a "grey ghost"--a male harrier soaring low over the fields in search of lunch. Curiously, no other hawks, though I'm sure today was another good day for raptor migration. Returning to our car, we saw our first local phoebe silently wagging its tail in a nearby tree. And several local teenagers in short-shorts, tank tops, and flip flops--who could blame them for wanting to pretend summer had arrived, expose that sun-starved flesh?
With our friend Brian, we soaked up some more rays and watched a few more birds at Weskeag Marsh: blue-winged teals and other ducks, an eagle, a great egret trailing lacy breeding plumage, several hysterical-sounding killdeer. The glare on the salt pannes made it difficult to see well. But hard to complain, when sunlight has been so hard to come by.
Finally, at home on a Sunday afternoon, the day of rest, I got my folding chair out of the shed for the first time since last fall and sat on the back porch reading a book until the sun began to hit the treeline. The rushing music of the river muted all other neighborhood sounds except a squirrel scolding from the yard, and I indulged in an hour or so of rare and luxurious relaxation of my favorite kind. And bug-free at that. Good night, Sun.
Real peace is simple:
good Norwegian mystery,*
a patch of sunlight.
*I'm reading Jo Nesbo's The Redbreast. Nesbo is supposed to be Norway's version of Sweden's Henning Mankell, whose noir mystery thrillers I highly recommend to those who enjoy the genre.
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