It is October. Dillard is wandering through the woods where birds are rioting in the colored leaves. She moves and watches, finds herself under this sugar maple. Stopped in her tracks. The maple can't call attention to itself. It's simply on fire with beauty.
It is warm tonight. Summer warm. When I left work, I took off the coat I was wearing, threw it in the back seat of my car. I rolled down the windows, turned on my CD player. I'm listening to an audio recording of the book The Boys on the Boat. I'm on disk 10, and the boys are on an ocean liner, headed to the Berlin Olympics. It's a good book, and it was a good evening to be cruising down the highway, wind whistling through the car, listening to Edward Herman's baritone voice describing the art of crew rowing.
For me this weekend is blessedly clear of obligations. There is no daughter's boyfriend spending the weekend on the couch. No Saturday morning church retreats. No reason to rush for anything these next two days. I plan to avoid any kind of stress. (My two Constant Readers know that I will probably fail miserably with this plan.)
So, it's Friday evening. The verge of summer. My lilac bushes are starting to green up, finally. Soon, I'll be able to look out my back window and see them blazing purple. A man on fire. Purple fire. (I know, I know. I'm really stretching for a connection. It's the best I got tonight.)
Saint Marty now has to go to see The Angry Birds Movie with his son. Can't avoid all stress.
|I never like playing Angry Birds|