It’s a day for the birds, literally. After picking up a to-go iced coffee at the ‘bucks, guttural caws flanked me on every side. My Grandfather once teased my brother, “Hear that, they’re saying Ky-le, Ky-le.”
The 4-inch spikes posted at the edge of a gas station cover – meant to keep birds away – had about a hundred, maybe more, crows lining the apex of the roof. I thought it funny, imagining the spikes were as successful as hand signals telling me not to walk. Cuz, I’ll walk when I want to, damn it.
My mind flipped to a scene in Yellowstone and the foreboding message a coyote standing in the sagebrush sent to tribal members. If that plucky murderous reunion is meant for me, I’ll probably end up like that one guy in the episode of “Tale From the Crypt” I watched when I was little.
I did survive, barely. With two new-to-us cats acclimating in the basement, and Archie in Evelyn’s room on the floor above barking intermittently at hearing their movement, I asked for Dave’s backing with bedtime, so I could slink away for me time to yoga.
The demands on my time and energy felt intense, but I’m grateful for the support I have from others, notably Dave. And my old neighbor Jeri. Planning to drive 40 minutes to my old residence to pick up a misdelivered package, I was pleasantly surprised when she offered to send it by UPS tomorrow. And I tried, but she won’t take my money for postage either.
That I had a taxing day makes gifts like that all the more meaningful.