After last year's presidential elections I couldn't write anymore. I inexplicably gave up on recycling. I baked pies.
Here are pictures, from my phone, not my spiffy camera, I took last weekend. And some lines that might gel
into a summer story.
The grass scent, a whiff of cyanide like biting apricot seeds, opens my rib cage. Birds achirping. The lake water ripples hypnotically.
I swam in the lake yesterday. Little blue back fish gathered around my feet. The algae tangled me. The fallen trees on the water edge reminded me of Louisiana swamp. I looked into the dark water underneath and feared alligators.
The dark sky at night with throws of wispy clouds and faraway stars, a few red airplane lights, and pulsating fireflies. The lack of depth/perspective makes all akin/equal.
The chestnut and pine trees are loaded with their green babies. Do they miss them when they fall down?
Laura Beth walks around the chalet with her parrot Hercule Poirot nested in her white hair. At times he pecks at her eyes.
I collected the eggs from the chicken coop. Two hens want badly to hatch. They pecked me when I scooped their hoard of eggs from underneath their warm feathers. I told Claire that often my chore was to check if they had more eggs coming up so we could keep count of them, make sure hens wouldn't eat them. Claire asked me how I proceeded. I explained I had to stick my finger up the hens'. She said gross. Oh, well. Mom didn’t want to have hens feeding on our eggs.
The stables. I mix up llamas with alpacas. One group is shorn comically. They have pantaloons of fur. The others are like mown lawns or freshly vacuumed carpets with lanes of imprints. They have large eyes and the top of their heads is like a hair pineapple. They look like the kids in my neighborhood.
Laura Beth took me to the flea market and garage sales. Locals are friendly with beautiful obliging smiles but I've seen Trump lawn signs. I'd die here. At the supermarket Candice was the only dark skin woman on the entire floor.