Thursday, February the eighth

It’s a bright but cloudy, almost cold, morning coffee muses.

It’s late, I laid in this morning. So the morning birds have all moved on today. I can still hear plenty of birds around, there just aren’t as many flitting from place to place.

There’s a train moving down the tracks to the south. Announcing itself from crossing to crossing. Wheels rumbling on the rails.

Just a slight breeze ruffles the upper branches of the pines, not the hard gusty winds of the past few days. The winter woods have taken on a grayness that almost never touches this area, or at least not my backyard. So much of the undergrowth has lost it’s leaves this year that there’s a transparency to the world in places that are usually not…

There is a greenness growing in the yard. But, it’s the green of what I call winter weeds… The clovers, the Velcro weed, the wire grass. Growing and covering the sear brown pasture grasses I call my lawn. Though scattered throughout are patches of ancient San Augustine. The yard grass of the south.

Coffee’s almost gone, time to see what’s up with the rest of the world.

 

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