Quarter of eight.

As I neared N Park from Fremont Avenue I could hear a mourning dove somewhere close to me. When I looked for him, his cooing stopped. Usually on my walks in the morning I’ll see a passenger jet above me, glittering in the sun, either taking off or about to land. Today there was a crow perched on the power line on the approach to the store, cawing loudly. The sky is a gray overcast. Lisa was giving free psychological advice to a young guy in a Roto Rooter shirt about his drinking. He appeared to be receptive, but a lot of times, an alcoholic will pay lip service and then do something the opposite. I used to do that when my psychiatrist gave me advice. He would observe that my actions didn’t match my words. I bought Aesop a big rib bone, but they didn’t have the Snapple teas I wanted; I had to settle for sugarless, and one of them is for Gloria. The dove must have followed me home, since I still hear him beyond my window. It’s considerably cooler today than two days ago. A squirrel in my backyard posed under the oak, nibbling an acorn before I let the dog out. Breakfast is done.

Eight thirty five.

This is kind of a so-what post. Nothing extraordinary is going on, but uneventful can be good. It beats pandemonium and things being out of control. I think I like it okay.


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