In the far distant south, the entire sky was lit up by lightning, continuously (and I mean continuously, not continually!), for a long, long time. I'm waiting to hear on the news where that was. Even from here, it was something to see. Apocalyptic. Far enough away that we couldn't hear the thunder, but incredible enough that you almost hated to go to bed and miss any of it.
Scott threw on some clothes and lit out down the road in hopes of a better view and some photos. I stood in my pyjamas and watched from the back step, rubbing my bare arms, until the cool night air forced me back in.
|The dandelion war is not over, by far.|
Out on the step, where I always take my coffee to see what kind of day it is, I see many more birds that have been quiet: the brown-headed cowbirds poking around the back yard soil; the hummingbirds chasing each other; the barn swallows. If I park myself in a chair for a while, some of them flit past my head so close and so fast I think they're teasing me. Up higher, hawks soar, and pelicans circle by, and gulls swing through, and turkey vultures sometimes take a reconnaisance tour above the yard.
Lounging out there is as good as sitting in a busy airport, people-watching. It's a neverending parade. And the longer you sit, the more brave and curious the birds become, and they will come closer and closer to check you out.