Gravitational Pull.

At the corner of Gracewood and Fernwood — ! — the roughly 8x8 chain-link front-yard dog kennel has fallen on itself. The BEWARE OF DOG sign on its gate/door is now aimed, give or take, at the sky. No dog in it to be wary of. The blue tarp roof is the culprit, I think: got full of water over the past few weeks and pulled the fencing down. The ruins of a very specific sort of civilization.

Easily five hundred starlings all in a yard on the way to work. A Great Blue Heron in the restored creek out front of the Proximity Hotel on the way home. I looked for hawks every time I went outside, but couldn't find any. Saw a vulture up over the railroad tracks, though, just after I quit this afternoon. Big. Slow. Ink on the whitening sky.

Today was the sort of day where if you'd had your chair aimed just right, you could have sat outside without a jacket on. Cloudless. Blue. Upper fifties after a morning chill. Daffodils still coming on, still coming on. Bluebells starting up out of the ground. It's supposed to be just past sixty tomorrow. These are the sorts of days that get me thinking hard about a truck bed full of compost, another one full of mulch.