Other than the near-tornado we had last night (oh, Kansas) it’s been absolutely beautiful around here.
So pretty that when I walk to and from downtown, I’ve been playing nature photographer. When I first saw these birds with the flowering dogwoods and the blue sky, I was all Marlon Perkins and blah blah blah, I should be a birder, I’m hunting for antique bird books, the birds are lovely, I love the birds.
Then this little guy hopped by, and he made me think of Ernest Hemingway – and how as a starving writer in Paris, he’d stroll through the Luxembourg Gardens, pushing a baby carriage, and occasionally strangle a pigeon for dinner.
This one was so shiny, so beady – and he made me think of Ma Ingalls on the plains. Laura recalled that when the sky rained dead blackbirds, they had no chicken, so Ma put them in a pie.
But I chop carrots fast, and make a very flaky crust.