Sunday morning. No, not morning. Afternoon. Cold, white-gray afternoon; a chilly wind blowing what’s left of the dry, brown leaves off the oak tree right outside the kitchen window. I can see—maybe a dozen leaves? Last hangers on. This morning I woke up and decided to do “everything” today. Usually Sundays I do nothing. Is today the Superbowl? I think it is. That’s not part of my “everything.” (AWP is 30 minutes from here. “Absolutely Won’t Participate” has always been my stance. No shame if you do, but I would prefer not to. Seems just as painful and life-sucking as sports on TV.) “Everything” today is working on the new book, organizing the farmhouse pantry, making food for the chickens, and bringing the goats and donkeys some carrots later. (Maybe going to town later like I’m Babe: Pig in the City.) So, not “everything” I guess. “Things.” Cold Sunday. February gray. Look, outside, the winter birds are on the fence again.
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