We have a high walled courtyard off the main bathroom. When my children were preschoolers, they planted a branch of cypress there. Surprisingly, a pine tree grew. It must have come up from a seed on the stick. The kids thought themselves master gardeners, especially when a pair of Willie Wagtails built a nest in the pine.
We gravitated to the bathroom, watching the birds sit tight on the tiny bowl. Once the eggs hatched though, the Willies became the mother of all birds.
Tremendous self dialogue and self-love flowing off the screen. Thanks Edie Tuck, you have supplied me with a mantra for today...the week...the year even. Live, laugh and love. When you make those pan juices of life into a sauce, then a deep, rich gravy, you have to make a real reduction. Those three L's are the necessary for every day. Without them, I reckon our days are pretty meh!
Woke to see a red sun
sitting on the ocean
first honeymoon morning
in the half-light predawn
a pause in real time
you sat up and glanced
then pulled me back down to bed
saying I was more engaging
my body better to see
hotter than the sun
kissing with closed eyes
your red hair backlit
golden and glowing
tangled all up in you
over excited by it
I hurled the pillows
to the floor
kicking off sheets
laughing like a maniac
in a frenzy
I heard a plaintive cry outside the lounge room. It usually means the finches are in danger, that either a goanna or a snake threatened.
Looking outside, I couldn’t see either. Then, 8 finches flew up from the wheel-barrow. October has been incredibly warm, but there was a cold snap at end of September. Firewood is still stacked outside.
Next to the cut logs was a tiny Double-barred Finch. It’s wing looked broken, though I wasn’t sure. Completely motionless, the bird must have hit the glass door. Its family flock were encouraging it to fly.
A let down.
Seems like overwhelming disappointment.
I got so into the characters I would dream plotlines.
Then allow doubt to infiltrate all the premises of my novel.
Spending a decade writing something, only to save it in 4 places.
To let it sit, to rot and petrify in multiple folders and thumb drives.
Tried to give the draft a final editing push, but fall back again.
It seems like trash, hardly worth the effort to whip it into shape.
Who am I kidding, no traditional publisher would want this crap?
I’ve been neglecting the manuscript again, a bird with just 1 tweet.
Rainbow Bee-eaters are back from wintering in north Queensland or New Guinea. They’ve returned to our farm to breed and gobble bees. And the best place for bees is our orchard.
In the first week of spring, apricots trees blossomed and bees swarmed.