I am watered

Lots of birds. Lots of flowers. Bird songs and flower colors. Each time I walk the neighborhood streets, adjacent neighborhoods too. More, it feels, with each walk. More avian choruses. More showing off their nature flowers. And, most days I walk twice. Is it possible more birds have arrived from somewhere else, farther south, and more flowers have blossomed from earlier in the day, like six or seven hours between? Or is a noticing thing on my part? Personally, I’ll go with the former.

I’ve returned from a walk and the downhill streets were running with rain water. It rained through much of the night, and there was an old-fashioned gully-washer a few hours back. I heard it out on B Street, me in my morning room writing my Morning Pages, filled with delicious coffee and a head full of words. The rain had stopped when I left for a later-than-usual first walk of the day. The trees, though, were filled with rain, holding drops, no doubt cherishing drops, and I got soaked when the laughing breeze shook their branches while I passed beneath. I said – I am watered.

Sweet San Diego. Desert on the ocean. Filled with birds, covered with flowers. And more of each all the time, if my reporting’s close to accurate. (Pssst – It is.) I cannot shake the sense that I was banished here, though that’s a shaky verb. Then again, it could be that banishment’s a gift. That language means more than its face value. What we read. What we hear. What we say.

Maybe it’s just me filling my promised Friday post. “Filling” being another one of those alchemical words.

And there’s no denying all those birds, all those flowers.