Sunday Morning – my saturday

It’s warmer and raining. The yard is full of birds. Sparrows, Starlings, the swoop of a royal blue jay into a red-armed bush; his crown high and kingly.
Tula and I are watching the birds, the occasional squirrel pass by. Her tail is wagging ferociously, she stretches up on the window and scratches like she’s digging. She acts tough in here, behind the glass, but out there – when she does sneak out, she freezes, hunkers down low to the ground so she won’t be seen.
A car honks on the street. 3, 7, 8 times. It’s 9:19 am, he’s picking someone up. 10, 12. GET OUT OF YOUR CAR YOU LAZY ASS AND KNOCK ON THE DOOR!
Or maybe it’s a child pretending to drive. On his knees in the front seat, playing with the knobs, banging on the horn.
Pat’s still asleep. The moon-colored IKEA lamp over my shoulder keeps me company. I’m reading and drinking coffee and pulling eyelashes from sleepy, itchy eyes. The small black hairs look like seeds – delicate and rough, perfectly curled, a parenthesis I blow down to the ground.

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