I know I am up early again, but I am not alone, I have chocolate. Max, the dog, has a small dog bone that he eats with intensity. And the cats? It is mid-60's F., and they are outside like a crazy tribe of zombies. It is 4 hours until dawn, but I am happy right now, despite my chocolate consumption.
It was lovely yesterday, and as I was mowing the lawn at twilight, I gathered a scent that I remember from long ago. The scent of the grass on a summer evening, as the stars came out overhead. I wanted to wander in the field for a long time, but the mosquitoes were also out. As one the size of an aircraft carrier landed on my arm to bite, I ran for the back door. Such are what memories are made of...
I am particularly susceptible to them. Mosquitoes love my blood. I must smell good and juicy, with plenty to spare. Their bite raises a sore the size of a buboe on my legs. For those of you who don't like history, buboes were the large pustules that came up on the skin and signaled the Black Death, in the Middle Ages. This is much the same process. Large amounts of my blood are transferred away from me, every bite. In return, the mosquitoes leave large blotches on any piece of skin they happen to land on. Maybe I smell coffee flavored and they stop in for a cuppa, on the hoof, as it were.
I have been listening to music to help me sleep. In particular, Loreena McKinnett and Mairi MacInnes. I suggest you check their music out on YouTube.
I could have gone back to sleep this morning, and I surely will, but I felt the need to communicate; to talk to you in this way we have. I don't know why the urge hits me some mornings, and some mornings, it does not. But now I write anyway. Otherwise nothing would get done. When I look back on what I could have written, but did not, the realization of that loss is a small agony. It cannot be undone, so there is no use to coddle the pain.
The coffee tastes particularly good this morning, and I am grateful I have all that I could want. The water tastes good, too.