Mulling things on my morning ramble
with Storm, the family’s mixed Lab.
The outflow from the storm line last night came through with winds so strong the fan in the boys room began an eerie whirling sound.
Change comes.
One of the great divides in American literature, as well as American politics, is naysayers and yea-sayers.
I would even stretch it out to American life.
I want to live my life firmly on the side of the yea-sayers.
Reminded of that again last night watching the convention speeches.
I support what I want the world to become; not some throw back to the 1950s or even worse the 1980s Reagan years. I am old enough to have lived them and don’t want to go back there, not now not ever.
This morning I sprinkled the last of the ground bait I am spreading daily for a fishing friend, who is obsessed with an odd fish he found in the town pond.
I have lived here more than a decade and have been doing rambles for a decade; first with the late lamented Flash and in recent years with Storm, and never saw the fish. But my friend found it the first time he came to see the town pond.
Yea-sayers find a non-native fish and see it as a challenge. My friend will be down soon to see if he can catch it.
Nay-sayers see evil and doom at every turn, in every non-native.
This morning, the air was calm, but before I left I checked the radar and it flared with incoming storms.
Change will come.
Coming back into town, more than a dozen mourning doves flushed near a patch of orchard grass by the rail tracks. It’s next to a spread of fine gravel they use as grit.
True grit.
