Another Muggy Morning Coffee Muses.
Clouds rushing north. As if to a winters party. A party I didn’t get an invitation to. Snow and ice, it’s a Game of Thrones themed party. Winter is coming… so they tell me.
It feels and sounds like spring here, though. Birds singing all around. Cool breeze blowing. Temperature is in the seventies once again. If I close my eyes, I could be sitting on the porch of a cabin in my favorite mountains on any summer’s day. But, it’s only in my mind that I can see the Blue Ridges fade into the distance.
There, you can see it too…
Another warm and gloomy Coffee Muses.
A mourning dove has decided to join the morning chorus.
The disc of the sun is sometimes visible, sometimes not, through the rising clouds that were once heavy fog.
There’s a blue jay announcing itself in my woods. A blue jay’s call doesn’t match it’s handsome good looks. The squeaky gate sound isn’t too bad in the singular, but in the plural… it’s like someone let the toddlers into an orchestra practice room with the instruments out.
A woodpecker’s harsh call cuts the background birdsong symphony. He’s searching for a tree to play percussion on. The symphony itself is composed mostly of northern cardinals, of which, we have an abundance of year round.
Now we are being serenaded by the neighborhood rooster. Make that roosters, he’s been joined from across the bayou. These guys seem to be confused by the lack of a sunrise, or maybe they are just suburban chickens and don’t salute the sun up.
Since it’s Sunday, I’m on breakfast duty so I’d better get moving…
Foggy morning Coffee Muses…
It’s loud out this morning. Birds are singing all over the place. And the fog seems to act as an amplifier. Somewhere, way off, I hear what sounds like a cuckoo…There’s a slight breeze blowing cool, damp air out of the south, making it feel much colder than it is.
The tv in the house murmurs with whatever has caught my granddaughter’s interest. Sandhill cranes are passing somewhere up in the clouds, talking to each other as they tend to do. Way off over Mustang Bayou a murder of crows is raising cain as only crows can.
Friday the thirteenth coffee muses… It’s warm, humid, overcast again… Just about a perfect summer’s morning except it’s winter.
As I sit here listening to the birds… and cows… and dogs… I can hear the sound of a train horn in the distance. All of those sounds can be heard at almost any time of the day, and the train can be heard most of the night too.
Funny what a difference a week can make. Last week the grass was still green. Just look down the page… Today it’s mostly brown. So, even if it doesn’t feel like winter, it now looks a lot more like winter.