The pond is now clear, clear to the bottom. All our fishes are happy. I can’t feed them yet.
I’m doing the final edit on the NEXT Foreigner book before writing the ending.
The house is a mess. But we are bringing order out of that chaos. Slowly. While working on the garden and two books.
Morning, and I hear birds singing…we don’t have the more colorful prairie birds this deep in the city, but I have my silly sparrows, and they’re back in the quince bush outside my window, in mating frenzy. They like our pond—they’re the cleanest birds in north Spokane; and they’re not afraid of the cats—who watch through the window. I miss our rosy house finches, but not the apartment where they visited.
So I’ll take my rowdy little browncoats, and enjoy them at very close range—only 3 feet from my chair. They’re not afraid of me, either. And they’re back every year.
The quince is about to bloom: it’ll be pink when it gets the blooms going—monster bush, high as the eaves.