Rejoicing and happiness

Piles of snow are growing darker and smaller, and the melt is running across roads and walks. Upwards there are skeins of geese (and geese-like flyers) crossing the sky. I haven’t put my feeders out for a few days, there is so much seed on the deck and ground I’m asking the birds to do some gleaning. The blue jays are very loud in their displeasure, but they will get over it. The starlings and blackbirds have been remarkably busy all around the yard, they’re good cleaners. I noted the cardinals going above and beyond and moving leaves while searching. Tomorrow morning I’ll put everything back out, new suet blocks, fresh seed, peanuts. There will be rejoicing and happiness. I wonder how the birds will feel.

Today is Super Bowl Sunday, I don’t think I’ve watched an entire Super Bowl game in years (decades?) but I like to pop in on games, typically cheer for the team I like a little bit better. Real fan stuff. But this year I’m interested because the Cincinnati Bengals are playing, and I have been a fan since Kenny Anderson was the quarterback. It’s funny, just looking at his stats I see that he is from Batavia, Illinois; we looked at a house there before moving this way; it may have influenced me had I known. Probably not, no, not really. Our dinner tonight will be our Super Bowl finger foods, for Jerry one single deviled duck egg and then cauliflower wings and stuffed mushrooms.

And tomorrow will be our 35th Valentine's Day. That seems significant. I’ll make a special meal. Or maybe I won’t cook, I’ll get a to-go item somewhere as it seems I have another week starting with errands. Or maybe I’ll make a spicy bean and tofu soup. The possibilities are endless. As with most of our days we have large tracts of open space, many hours. We come together, we do our schtick, we go to our separate areas of the house, we do our thing, we come back together. Don’t tell him but I just noticed that the little box of chocolates I got for him has an orange crème and a strawberry crème: why? Just a waste.

Here's a weak hand poem from this morning:

In the half-sleep I imagine sunfill, either sheep meadow
or dappled Mediterranean. I want the sleep lulled
by waves patting an orange boat or the bah-bahing
of lambs, the grass tearing of ruminants moving past.

In each, the sky is less than blue, the sun
the perfect temperature for lazy doze. In each
I relax until dreams or fancy overtake me. In
each I find the absurdity that they don’t exist together.