I flipped on the ole tele last night to catch some of the State of the Union address, and found that I had missed most of Dubbya's remarks about the economy. But I was just in time to hear him spout the same old sensationalist rhetoric about "the enemy" and its desire to destroy American freedom.
I got really mad. My first reaction was to shout at the TV. Then, I wanted to turn it off because I couldn't listen anymore.
But finally I realized that underneath all that [expletive deleted], there just might be something I wanted to know. Sometimes you just have to listen, even when you don't want to, because the price of ignorance is just too high.
Besides, there were some fun parts, like seeing Nancy Pelosi start flipping through a notebook with obvious boredom while Dubbya droned on about "successes", and seeing half the spectators refuse to stand up when he made what he obviously thought were strong statements about "staying the course" in the Mideast, especially the rather pathetic lies about community cooperation among Muslim sects in Iraq. It's not like anyone was going along with his...er... grandstanding. So, I guess it's nothing to get upset about. In fact, it's a little sad. Poor Bushy.
Well, maybe that's going a little too far.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Fine Craftsmanship
As some of you know, my bike was stolen while DW and I were on our extended camping trip last summer. At first, I felt a little lost and violated, but then I came to recognize that the thief may have done me a favor.
I've never been real picky when it comes to things like this. I just wanted something to get me from point A to point B as easily and inexpensively as possible. Now, that's not to say I was willing to take some piece of junk. Doing so would most likely not have achieved my goal. But I had no problem with buying a bike at Walmart for $75 rather than spend hundreds at a bike store. It was good enough for me, I thought.
The said stolen bike had fallen into this category, but almost from the first week of purchase, I had been dissatisfied with it. The back wheel possessed a decided wobble, which replacing the tire and even the rim did nothing to eliminate. Regardless what adjustments I made, the front wheel disk brake system would either not stop the bike or would rub and force me to fight the friction when I rode. The gears changed roughly and sometimes would not change at all. And the list goes on.
But since I did actually have a bike that worked, I would not allow myself to buy another. So when some person in Vancouver decided he or she liked my bike enough to cut the lock and make away with it, I was actually liberated in some ways.
This week, I broke down and visited some of the numerous bike shops in our small city. I had determined that if I was going to spend my hard-earned money, I might as well have something I liked. And after some browsing and talking with knowledgeable sales people, I purchased a rather expensive Trek street bike from one of the stores.
I have seldom been so happy with a purchase. This bike has an amazingly smooth ride, and it has everything I ever wanted on a bike. My commute to work is sheer joy now. I guess the old saying is true, you do get what you pay for.
I've never been real picky when it comes to things like this. I just wanted something to get me from point A to point B as easily and inexpensively as possible. Now, that's not to say I was willing to take some piece of junk. Doing so would most likely not have achieved my goal. But I had no problem with buying a bike at Walmart for $75 rather than spend hundreds at a bike store. It was good enough for me, I thought.
The said stolen bike had fallen into this category, but almost from the first week of purchase, I had been dissatisfied with it. The back wheel possessed a decided wobble, which replacing the tire and even the rim did nothing to eliminate. Regardless what adjustments I made, the front wheel disk brake system would either not stop the bike or would rub and force me to fight the friction when I rode. The gears changed roughly and sometimes would not change at all. And the list goes on.
But since I did actually have a bike that worked, I would not allow myself to buy another. So when some person in Vancouver decided he or she liked my bike enough to cut the lock and make away with it, I was actually liberated in some ways.
This week, I broke down and visited some of the numerous bike shops in our small city. I had determined that if I was going to spend my hard-earned money, I might as well have something I liked. And after some browsing and talking with knowledgeable sales people, I purchased a rather expensive Trek street bike from one of the stores.
I have seldom been so happy with a purchase. This bike has an amazingly smooth ride, and it has everything I ever wanted on a bike. My commute to work is sheer joy now. I guess the old saying is true, you do get what you pay for.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Perspective
Last week I tried for the third time to quit working as a crossing guard. Not because I wanted to, but because I don't really have time for it. And for the third time, I listened to the supervisor's pleas and empty promises.
Consequently, I stood at a busy intersection this morning in the downpour, holding a stop sign and feeling the damp soak into my skin despite my Teflon-coated hiking boots and new waterproof parka. As I watched the drops fall from the bill of my cap, I thought, "This is miserable. Cold and miserable. Why am I doing this again?"
And then suddenly I remembered... I like rain.
It was like a switch was thrown in the cosmos, and all the world appeared before me with new dimension. The soft pitter, pat... pat, pat, pit of drops merging with the puddle at the curb was better than a symphony, their singular rhythm harmonizing with the larger movement. The gray sky both blotted out and reflected the landscape, like the cobblestones in that famous Caillebotte painting. And everywhere I looked, the moss on the tree trunks, the grass of the baseball diamond, the narcissus buds pushing through the soil, all reveled in the life-giving miracle that poured from the heavens.
And though I am not in tune with this celestial orchestra as much as I would like, I heard it again and recalled the beauty of the rain.
Consequently, I stood at a busy intersection this morning in the downpour, holding a stop sign and feeling the damp soak into my skin despite my Teflon-coated hiking boots and new waterproof parka. As I watched the drops fall from the bill of my cap, I thought, "This is miserable. Cold and miserable. Why am I doing this again?"
And then suddenly I remembered... I like rain.
It was like a switch was thrown in the cosmos, and all the world appeared before me with new dimension. The soft pitter, pat... pat, pat, pit of drops merging with the puddle at the curb was better than a symphony, their singular rhythm harmonizing with the larger movement. The gray sky both blotted out and reflected the landscape, like the cobblestones in that famous Caillebotte painting. And everywhere I looked, the moss on the tree trunks, the grass of the baseball diamond, the narcissus buds pushing through the soil, all reveled in the life-giving miracle that poured from the heavens.
And though I am not in tune with this celestial orchestra as much as I would like, I heard it again and recalled the beauty of the rain.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
And He Shall Be Called...Fergus!
After much deliberation, we have decided to purchase the new canine addition to our family from the breeder in Michigan.
His name, which roughly translates to "First Choice" or "First Man" from the Gaelic, is a little inaccurate considering that he is not the product of our first breeder. However, my preference was always for a brindle (as opposed to pure black or wheaten), male Scottish Terrier, and he is that. Our original breeder's dogs are not brindled... or not much. So in some ways, he is more our first choice than our first choice of breeder could have produced.
He won't be old enough to fly for a few more weeks, so we won't bring him home until late February or early March. It will be hard to contain my enthusiasm until then, but there are preparations to be made in the meantime.
His name, which roughly translates to "First Choice" or "First Man" from the Gaelic, is a little inaccurate considering that he is not the product of our first breeder. However, my preference was always for a brindle (as opposed to pure black or wheaten), male Scottish Terrier, and he is that. Our original breeder's dogs are not brindled... or not much. So in some ways, he is more our first choice than our first choice of breeder could have produced.
He won't be old enough to fly for a few more weeks, so we won't bring him home until late February or early March. It will be hard to contain my enthusiasm until then, but there are preparations to be made in the meantime.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Apathetic Machinations
I like to read the newspaper with my breakfast. It's something I wasn't able to do for years because academic pursuits kept me up long into the night so that I was unable or unwilling to rise thirty minutes early for the news. But now I cherish this time to sit quietly, catch up on the happenings of civilization, and prepare myself for the day.
The problem is that my city doesn't have a morning paper. The Sacramento Bee and the San Francisco Chronicle are both available to me, but I don't take either one because I don't live in Sacramento or San Francisco. In addition to national and international news, I like to keep abreast of my own neighborhood. A local paper is great for that. It helps me feel like I am part of the community. And our paper, which has a long and distinguished history, generally picks up most of the key stories from the news services as well, so I am not left out of the bigger picture. Unfortunately, this paper is an afternoon paper, a fact I have lamented frequently. It is already a day behind, and I have already become familiar with most of the major news stories when I sit down to the paper the next morning.
However, yesterday I had cause to be happy about the paper's distribution time. I trotted out to the driveway at around 6:00 pm to collect the paper and read on the front page that Bill Clinton would be speaking on campus that very night. I had heard nothing of this prior to this headline because the campaign stop was apparently a last-minute decision for Clinton. Had I not had an afternoon paper, I would certainly have missed it entirely.
I hurried in to tell DW about it, and we decided to go hear the former president speak. In addition to wanting to see him in his own right, he was stumping for his wife, and with the CA primary rapidly approaching, we were eager to hear what he had to say about her.
The event was scheduled for 9:00, and the doors for the venue, which is within sight of our house, were slated to open at 8:15. We departed at 7:00 and felt sure that even though there would certainly be a long line, we would be able to get in.
We were wrong. I've never seen a line this long. We walked, and we walked... and we walked, but the linear feet of people was unbelievable. It circled around the building, the adjacent soccer field, the campus recreation center, and lined the sidewalk along the street behind. It was apparent to us pretty quickly that we would not be admitted. The venue could not possibly hold this many people. And they were still streaming in.
Most of them were students, and I found myself surprised and excited that so many of them had turned out. Sure Clinton is a celebrity, and that's cool and all. But this was thousands upon thousands of students. It was cold and incredibly windy. Some of them had been waiting for hours... or four hours, as I read today. "Wow! This is great!" I thought. "They care. They actually care enough to overcome their self-centeredness, break out of their apathetic cynicism to show up and engage in our political process, even though it is uncomfortable and inconvenient."
But then, as we kept walking by them, I began to notice that they were just having a grand ole time. This was an enormous party for them. Everyone was there; they were laughing and horse-playing, talking on their cell phones, and being incredibly moronic. In other words, this was not a divergence from normal college student activity. They were really there because it was something to do in a city that doesn't offer them much. It was an excuse to congregate and act crazy, and they could pretend that they were being responsible, informed citizens at the same time. It was a win-win for them.
It will be interesting to see if even half of them care enough to vote by the time the election actually comes in November.
The problem is that my city doesn't have a morning paper. The Sacramento Bee and the San Francisco Chronicle are both available to me, but I don't take either one because I don't live in Sacramento or San Francisco. In addition to national and international news, I like to keep abreast of my own neighborhood. A local paper is great for that. It helps me feel like I am part of the community. And our paper, which has a long and distinguished history, generally picks up most of the key stories from the news services as well, so I am not left out of the bigger picture. Unfortunately, this paper is an afternoon paper, a fact I have lamented frequently. It is already a day behind, and I have already become familiar with most of the major news stories when I sit down to the paper the next morning.
However, yesterday I had cause to be happy about the paper's distribution time. I trotted out to the driveway at around 6:00 pm to collect the paper and read on the front page that Bill Clinton would be speaking on campus that very night. I had heard nothing of this prior to this headline because the campaign stop was apparently a last-minute decision for Clinton. Had I not had an afternoon paper, I would certainly have missed it entirely.
I hurried in to tell DW about it, and we decided to go hear the former president speak. In addition to wanting to see him in his own right, he was stumping for his wife, and with the CA primary rapidly approaching, we were eager to hear what he had to say about her.
The event was scheduled for 9:00, and the doors for the venue, which is within sight of our house, were slated to open at 8:15. We departed at 7:00 and felt sure that even though there would certainly be a long line, we would be able to get in.
We were wrong. I've never seen a line this long. We walked, and we walked... and we walked, but the linear feet of people was unbelievable. It circled around the building, the adjacent soccer field, the campus recreation center, and lined the sidewalk along the street behind. It was apparent to us pretty quickly that we would not be admitted. The venue could not possibly hold this many people. And they were still streaming in.
Most of them were students, and I found myself surprised and excited that so many of them had turned out. Sure Clinton is a celebrity, and that's cool and all. But this was thousands upon thousands of students. It was cold and incredibly windy. Some of them had been waiting for hours... or four hours, as I read today. "Wow! This is great!" I thought. "They care. They actually care enough to overcome their self-centeredness, break out of their apathetic cynicism to show up and engage in our political process, even though it is uncomfortable and inconvenient."
But then, as we kept walking by them, I began to notice that they were just having a grand ole time. This was an enormous party for them. Everyone was there; they were laughing and horse-playing, talking on their cell phones, and being incredibly moronic. In other words, this was not a divergence from normal college student activity. They were really there because it was something to do in a city that doesn't offer them much. It was an excuse to congregate and act crazy, and they could pretend that they were being responsible, informed citizens at the same time. It was a win-win for them.
It will be interesting to see if even half of them care enough to vote by the time the election actually comes in November.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Some Awakings are Greater than Others
In front of my house, I have noticed the crocuses, hyacinths, and daffodils emerging from their year-long slumber. Their tender green blades have always been a source of delight for me. They let me know that mother nature is casting aside the thick blanket of winter slumber and preparing to burst forth in the glorious array of her youth. Oh, to be sure, I enjoy the beauty of winter as well. But it is a quiet beauty of muffled sounds and monochromatic landscapes. It is a time to rest the mind along with the ear and the eye. The earth will have gained strength during this rest, and the reward will be the bright blushes and soft sprouts of spring renewal. Life and color will return to the world, and a flurry of activity will accompany it.
But here in CA, that winter pause does not come. Fall and winter spell the return of life-giving rains to the parched land of the Valley. The green of the trees never fades, but it wearies and darkens during the long, hot summer months and is quickened to new boldness with the arrival of autumn. In winter, even the sidewalks wear robes of emerald.
Consequently, the emergence of theses harbingers of spring in my garden, these former sources of such joy, now signals something else to me.
The fog clung to my mustache and beard as I walked to work this morning. Cold and unpleasant, it, too, contained the unmistakably earthy aroma of spring. This same moisture accumulates slowly on the leaves of trees and the branches of shrubs until it plummets suddenly to pockmark the ground around their trunks like a tiny, wet meteor shower. The already damp soil greedily drinks up the offerings as if it is all too aware that the drought will come too soon.
But here in CA, that winter pause does not come. Fall and winter spell the return of life-giving rains to the parched land of the Valley. The green of the trees never fades, but it wearies and darkens during the long, hot summer months and is quickened to new boldness with the arrival of autumn. In winter, even the sidewalks wear robes of emerald.
Consequently, the emergence of theses harbingers of spring in my garden, these former sources of such joy, now signals something else to me.
The fog clung to my mustache and beard as I walked to work this morning. Cold and unpleasant, it, too, contained the unmistakably earthy aroma of spring. This same moisture accumulates slowly on the leaves of trees and the branches of shrubs until it plummets suddenly to pockmark the ground around their trunks like a tiny, wet meteor shower. The already damp soil greedily drinks up the offerings as if it is all too aware that the drought will come too soon.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Deep breath before the plunge
This weekend, Darling Wife and I head down to Hollywood to see Wicked. DW has wanted to see the musical since it openned on Broadway. I'm not a big fan of musicals, but after years of anticipation, I confess to a certain level of excitement at the prospect of finally seeing it. In addition, we haven't been down to SoCal yet, and you know how I love travel. We've booked a decent hotel near the theatre and most of the main Hollywood attractions; I've mapped our route; and we've squirrelled away some funds. Now... we wait.
Next week is also the week I start classes. That means that I will take back up my grad student mantle and add a new nuance to it, "librarian." It's not very exciting, but it's mine... or will be. I'm dreading the workload but looking forward to getting back on a career path. I'm also eager to get past the initial stages of learning how to attend classes online. I dislike new situations where I am out of my depth, and even though I've completed all of the mandatory technology training for the program, there is still a how-is-this-going-to-work factor that only experience will quell. So even while I don't want the semester to start on so many levels, I am ready to grit my teeth and determinedly mutter, "Let's do this already." But it has to wait for next week.
And then there's the puppy situation. We talked to our breeder last week and learned that her "bitch" still hasn't "come into season." She's over five months overdue, which is not unheard of but not common either. Even if she was suddenly ready tomorrow, and the breeder brought in the "stud," the puppies wouldn't be born until the first of April. That means we wouldn't be able to bring Fido home until mid-to-late June. This is getting d**n annoying. I know the breeder can't do anything about it, and we were never in a great rush, but... COME... ON!
The breeder gave us the name of another breeder who has puppies available now. Our breeder is ruthless in her desire for the best possible health of her dogs. Many breeders care primarily about making sure pups conform to the breed standard to the extent that they are sometimes careless about ensuring health first and foremost, but our breeder is outspoken against such practices. That's why we like her. Since she's willing to recommend this other breeder, we feel pretty comfortable with them... but not entirely comfortable. We've been to our breeder's house, seen her dogs and her kennel, and gotten to know her for months. The other breeders are in Michigan. That's right, Michigan. We won't be able to see the pups parents, and they are going to have to ship him to us. I just don't know about that. But... but...
And if we decide to purchase junior from this new breeder, he won't be ready until February. Again, we must wait.
Times like this make me nervous. We wait and we wait, and we do nothing. And I can't help but feel that with so many things in the offing... something is bound to go... well... off.
Next week is also the week I start classes. That means that I will take back up my grad student mantle and add a new nuance to it, "librarian." It's not very exciting, but it's mine... or will be. I'm dreading the workload but looking forward to getting back on a career path. I'm also eager to get past the initial stages of learning how to attend classes online. I dislike new situations where I am out of my depth, and even though I've completed all of the mandatory technology training for the program, there is still a how-is-this-going-to-work factor that only experience will quell. So even while I don't want the semester to start on so many levels, I am ready to grit my teeth and determinedly mutter, "Let's do this already." But it has to wait for next week.
And then there's the puppy situation. We talked to our breeder last week and learned that her "bitch" still hasn't "come into season." She's over five months overdue, which is not unheard of but not common either. Even if she was suddenly ready tomorrow, and the breeder brought in the "stud," the puppies wouldn't be born until the first of April. That means we wouldn't be able to bring Fido home until mid-to-late June. This is getting d**n annoying. I know the breeder can't do anything about it, and we were never in a great rush, but... COME... ON!
The breeder gave us the name of another breeder who has puppies available now. Our breeder is ruthless in her desire for the best possible health of her dogs. Many breeders care primarily about making sure pups conform to the breed standard to the extent that they are sometimes careless about ensuring health first and foremost, but our breeder is outspoken against such practices. That's why we like her. Since she's willing to recommend this other breeder, we feel pretty comfortable with them... but not entirely comfortable. We've been to our breeder's house, seen her dogs and her kennel, and gotten to know her for months. The other breeders are in Michigan. That's right, Michigan. We won't be able to see the pups parents, and they are going to have to ship him to us. I just don't know about that. But... but...
And if we decide to purchase junior from this new breeder, he won't be ready until February. Again, we must wait.
Times like this make me nervous. We wait and we wait, and we do nothing. And I can't help but feel that with so many things in the offing... something is bound to go... well... off.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
What's Going Down
So, I've been away over the past few weeks visiting family in the cold reaches of Minnesota. (It really is like the artic there. And they talk funny too. You should visit it sometime.) After all this time, I should have a lot of material to post.... but... I don't.
For one thing, I feel really tired. The damp and chill we are experiencing here in the Great Central Valley is nothing compared to soul-numbing cold of Minnesota -or the more moderately cold temps of just about anywhere else for that matter- but it does sort of seep into your bones after awhile. The days are gray and windy, and the nights are wet and cold. It's the kind of weather that makes you appreciate a cup of Earl Grey and a warm bowl of soup. It also makes a good book and a fire more appealing than a computer screen.
In addition, we're in a waiting period. I start classes in my new grad program in a couple of weeks, and we're taking a brief trip down to L.A. next weekend. But right now, there isn't much going on.
I made a new friend just before going on vacation, and I'm going down the pub to join him and a co-worker for a couple of pints in a few hours. I'm rather excited about that. This could be the first real friend I've made here in this burnt land at the edge of the earth. Most of my previous "friends" were really just classmates. We got along well, but my interactions with them always focused on school, even when it was a purely social event. Since I was out of sorts with the program, school talk wasn't terribly fun for me, and I never really connected with them well.
Consequently, my mind is whirring with thoughts of new beginnings and self-reinventions... but I just don't have the energy or interest in blogging much about it. Perhaps I'll rouse myself a little more as the days pass and this new year gets truly going.
For one thing, I feel really tired. The damp and chill we are experiencing here in the Great Central Valley is nothing compared to soul-numbing cold of Minnesota -or the more moderately cold temps of just about anywhere else for that matter- but it does sort of seep into your bones after awhile. The days are gray and windy, and the nights are wet and cold. It's the kind of weather that makes you appreciate a cup of Earl Grey and a warm bowl of soup. It also makes a good book and a fire more appealing than a computer screen.
In addition, we're in a waiting period. I start classes in my new grad program in a couple of weeks, and we're taking a brief trip down to L.A. next weekend. But right now, there isn't much going on.
I made a new friend just before going on vacation, and I'm going down the pub to join him and a co-worker for a couple of pints in a few hours. I'm rather excited about that. This could be the first real friend I've made here in this burnt land at the edge of the earth. Most of my previous "friends" were really just classmates. We got along well, but my interactions with them always focused on school, even when it was a purely social event. Since I was out of sorts with the program, school talk wasn't terribly fun for me, and I never really connected with them well.
Consequently, my mind is whirring with thoughts of new beginnings and self-reinventions... but I just don't have the energy or interest in blogging much about it. Perhaps I'll rouse myself a little more as the days pass and this new year gets truly going.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Anticipation
Over the past few weeks, DW and I have been attending the Episcopal church that is within a block of our house. Neither of us is Episcopalian, but it's a reasonable compromise between her Catholicism and my Baptist upbringing. I also attended services at St. Paul's every Sunday while I was on study abroad in London, so I'm fairly comfortable with the rites. But most importantly, it's just really close to our house.
So anyway, as you may be aware, this is the season of Advent. Every Sunday, the preacher reminds us of the Hope, Peace, and Joy that come with waiting for the birth of the Saviour. He reminds us of the pleasure to be attained in anticipation. It's a message I enjoy hearing. I think it's one we should all hear more of in our disposable, instant-gratification culture.
But just a few minutes ago, the doorbell rang and one of those guys in the funny brown trucks dropped off an enormous package from my father. Dad called last week to tell me to expect it, and unlike his usual admonitions about not opening gifts until Christmas, he insisted that we open this one as soon as we received it. I am riddled with curiosity to see what is inside this cardboard missive from the far reaches of the Confederacy. But I have promised not touch it until DW gets home, and I keep my promises.
Why do I have to be so d***ned honorable?
So anyway, as you may be aware, this is the season of Advent. Every Sunday, the preacher reminds us of the Hope, Peace, and Joy that come with waiting for the birth of the Saviour. He reminds us of the pleasure to be attained in anticipation. It's a message I enjoy hearing. I think it's one we should all hear more of in our disposable, instant-gratification culture.
But just a few minutes ago, the doorbell rang and one of those guys in the funny brown trucks dropped off an enormous package from my father. Dad called last week to tell me to expect it, and unlike his usual admonitions about not opening gifts until Christmas, he insisted that we open this one as soon as we received it. I am riddled with curiosity to see what is inside this cardboard missive from the far reaches of the Confederacy. But I have promised not touch it until DW gets home, and I keep my promises.
Why do I have to be so d***ned honorable?
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
A Wing and Prayer
It really is the little things -and an active imagination- that get me through most days. For instance, I pass through a city park on the way to my morning crossing guard shift. The park is usually shrouded in mist, still and quite in the early post-dawn hours . That is, until I get to the soccer field at its center. The field is usually covered in sea gulls. We live pretty far inland, but there are waterways all around, and I presume the sea gulls come from these. I seldom see them elsewhere, but unaccountably, they flit across the grass of the field, running or wheeling about in huge numbers in the dim gray light.
Instantly the idea pops into my head that they are involved in a match, a secret match between the gulls and the ravens I notice as I draw closer, representatives of sea and land, locked in sportsmen-like battle. Initially, the dark plumage of the ravens made them invisible in the low light of the field, but as I see them, I realize I've been hearing their cries from the moment I entered the park. Perhaps they aren't doing well in the game, or perhaps their cawing is a diversionary tactic, intended to intimidate their opponents. The gulls, larger and more graceful on the wing, utter an occasional squawk in reply, but they seem steadier, more confident in their maneuvering. Birds from both groups sit or stand in silence on the edges of the field like feathered spectators, their attention bent on the activities in the center. As I look more closely, I see that there are a few smaller birds in the throng, referees, perhaps. They dart about, making sure everyone plays by the rules.
I roll past on my bike with this image in my head and a slight smile on my face. I think the gulls are winning. Today will be a good day.
Instantly the idea pops into my head that they are involved in a match, a secret match between the gulls and the ravens I notice as I draw closer, representatives of sea and land, locked in sportsmen-like battle. Initially, the dark plumage of the ravens made them invisible in the low light of the field, but as I see them, I realize I've been hearing their cries from the moment I entered the park. Perhaps they aren't doing well in the game, or perhaps their cawing is a diversionary tactic, intended to intimidate their opponents. The gulls, larger and more graceful on the wing, utter an occasional squawk in reply, but they seem steadier, more confident in their maneuvering. Birds from both groups sit or stand in silence on the edges of the field like feathered spectators, their attention bent on the activities in the center. As I look more closely, I see that there are a few smaller birds in the throng, referees, perhaps. They dart about, making sure everyone plays by the rules.
I roll past on my bike with this image in my head and a slight smile on my face. I think the gulls are winning. Today will be a good day.
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