I don't know what's gotten into the cat, but he's allowed me to sleep till 5:30 for two nights in a row. And now it's Thursday morning: streets and driveways tagged with graffiti streaks of sun, birds bustling in the maples, yesterday's woolen-wash still twitching gently on the lines.
It's been so pleasant to have a slow week: some editing, some writing, but also time to muddle and maunder. I've got a big weeding project to tackle in the Hill Country. I've got winter clothes to wash and store, summer clothes to sort and shelve. I've got windows to wash and screens to hose down. Amid my maunderings I will begin to tackle these bits and straggles, but even so my mind is refreshing itself. I feel like a Percheron, suddenly unharnessed from my plow and let loose in a pasture.