Quiet Sunday

Yesterday, the Daughter Person helped her Fiancee (who did most of the work) put together, paint and install our own Little Free Library. We'll get it registered in the next few days ($34.95 for the Steward's Packet and charter sign) and then do some more promotion. Obviously, we're also going to have to do some mowing before we promote it too much (or just let the readers beat a path for themselves?). It's mounted on the bur oak to keep it back from the road and because at least one member of the crew thought it had to be there or the magic would be lost.

Little Free Library in the Woods         © harrington

The weather forecast this morning called for a 40% chance of thunderstorms this afternoon. We just hit 100% probability where we are. I spent much of the morning working on a poem while watching darkening clouds roll in, so before it poured, the Better Half and  I went for a walk up "The Hill" and inspected the wild flower paririe on "The Property." After only twenty years or so, it's beginning to look a little like I think a prairie (shortgrass) should. See for yourself. This might be one of the best things to come out of our rainy, extended Spring.

 back yard prairie                          © harrington

A pair of rose breasted grosbeaks showed up back at the feeder this morning. We hadn't seen any around for the past couple of weeks or so so it was nice to confirm they hadn't moved out of the area. After all, without relocating except to look out different windows or be in the front instead of the back yard, we have a Little House in the Big Woods or a Little House on the Prairie. That definitely makes for an interesting neighborhood, although Carol Light has more pieces of prairie included in her poem.

Prairie Sure

By Carol Light

Would I miss the way a breeze dimples

the butter-colored curtains on Sunday mornings,

or nights gnashed by cicadas and thunderstorms?

The leaning gossip, the half-alive ripple

of sunflowers, sagging eternities of corn

and sorghum, September preaching yellow, yellow

in all directions, the windowsills swelling

with Mason jars, the blue sky bluest borne

through tinted glass above the milled grains?

The dust, the heat, distrusted, the screen door

slapping as the slat-backed porch swing sighs,

the hatch of houseflies, the furlongs of freight trains,

and how they sing this routine, so sure, so sure—

the rote grace of every tempered life?

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