Notes From the Shoulder

The first hummingbirds of the season were a week earlier than even some of the oldest old timers remember. There was still elation, for they foretell the true coming of summer. My feeders, both seed and pollen, have been busy places. The cats make valiant attempts, and I narrate their trials in the accent of Sir David Attenborough. It's hard to tell who is more amused; myself, or, the mocking cackles of feeling birds.

In twenty-two shorter than we realize days, tourist season really gets underway. The first tour bus of the season showed up during obligations. Chinese. I deal with people from all over the planet, and it is times like that I curse my lack of multi-linguistics. Sure, I know a few words in a few languages, but only enough to sound cool, or, affected, in conversation.

Despite that misanthropic face I see in the mirror, I do also realize I have many metaphoric irons in the metaphoric fire. I might be placing another into those proverbial flames. Right now, it's a whole lot of hurry up and wait. Although, cats of my acquaintance seem to be pulling for me and my patience is formidable. The magistrate pointed my existence out to some powerful people who smoke fancy cigars and drink expensive drinks. I am not sure how to approach the subject.

This is the time of waiting. Waiting for the green and the flowers. Waiting for rafting and the museums to open. Waiting for it to get hot out. Up here, we stand upon the shoulder waiting. Summer is but sun and storm away.