And the weather man cried wolf.
It was after much attention, a good garden feeding, that we drew ourselves back into the house. The Sunday evening light swept in with the breeze. Quiet.
The tin man sleeps. Our ghetto pot, now back into rotation. We thought all had been lost, but after months of rest, its health appears restored. Joints a little wobbly, but all heart. The best coffee we've had in ages.
I hear the ice cream truck..."Boing. Thwack—thwack...HELL-Owe!"
Good sleeping weather.
Loading the Canon into iPhoto I notice the curtains dancing. My aprons hanging, unflappable on the dryer rack. Wallflowers. Some time later, as I write, they get up the courage to move, swaying back and forth.
A twisted river of words. Pause. Contemplation. Pause. Publish Post.