INSIDE
Want-wuhnt, want-wuhnt. The washing machine twists and turns. Sloshes and squishes. Want-wuhnt, want-wuhnt. The rain has stopped.
A cardinal chirps outside my window: the introvert of the bird world. The first bird you hear in the morning. The last birdsong you hear at night. Drops in more times than not when all the other birds are away. But not always. I understand her energy. Crowds can be hectic.
My dog is laying on her bed at my feet as I type this. She just passed gas. It’s terrible. I reposition the fan. Relief.
The crows where I live get the hell out of Dodge every July 4. They read the cues from their environment long before the first firework blasts off like a gunshot into the sky. The pool is the kicker I hypothesize. They have a massive, loud pool party here every July 4 starting at noon. Obnoxiously loud. Music blasts throughout the area. A DJ. Games. Prizes. A swarm of bodies. Absolute insanity. I am the cardinal and I will not drop in.
And it is this which tips off the crows and I don’t blame them. As I wrote in my daily log for the day:
I’m not a fan of fireworks. It has everything to do with birds. July 4 has to be a terrifying night for them, especially the fledglings. When I hear the fireworks pop off when the sun goes down, I think of the birds huddled in the trees waiting for it all to end. My mind goes here every year. I feel the squirrels can empathize.
Random Notes: July 4, 2024
The crows will return in the morning: Mr. Jones and his gal pal will caw their hearts out until I appear. I wonder if it’s their way of asking me if I made it through the night. They’ll perch on the fencepost. Black shadows. My feathered friends.
