Thursday

The wind blows through the cottonwood grove, tossing down fluff, sounding like a stream.  A world in green and white: white clouds, white fluff, white gravel, white flowers, and everywhere...green.  Feels like July, the apex of summer.  Tall grasses wave, not yet dry and yellow.  Bird song echos through the sky.  Clouds billow up high, then form walls of white on the horizons, in the dome of the sky wisps of thinner cloud paint the sky, on one side, a cloud rainbow (only visible while wearing sunglasses), elsewhere, clouds full of holes, like Swiss cheese.  The air warm, almost hot, crossing the expanse of asphalt.  Near the shore a Pied-billed grebe and offspring call to one another, the elder diving and the baby chirping and turning one way than the next to see where the former will resurface with food.  Further off, a crow hovers and drops to the water surface, surprisingly landing a catch.

Walking back along the road, something(s) smack me on the side of the head and my back.  I think it must be a catkin or a cone of some sort, knocked free by the wind.  I reach to brush it off only to find a blackish, granular streak across the palm of my hand.  It doesn't easily brush off.  No idea what it is, I suppose bird poo would be better than any other alternative.  I went and washed it off in a nearby restroom; it shall remain a mystery.

How is it not Friday, yet?