Preparing to mow the lawn yesterday, I wandered my main floor. Smoothed sunscreen on my face. Located my flip flops. Informed Chienne that I would be outside.
It was then that I noticed a creature hopping around the white tile of my kitchen floor.
"Oh," I said, startled.
For while I have a dog and cat, I have not - in my long absence - added a bird to my brood.
Sprout, however, on an accidental (on my part - quite purposeful on his) adventure Friday night had apparently added to our family with his hunting treasure.
I believe the bird - little and gray - fought back and escaped my vicious feline and hid until he went to catch a nap in the sunshine. Chienne and I have no killer instinct of which to speak - quickly scurrying from the house and closing the door, leaving the bird inside.
"That's not going to work longterm," I told my loyal hound before she abandoned me to sit outside in her yard. I set about opening doors (with an absent hope that no other birds came in) and arming myself with a giant storage container and long stick to convince the bird (who may have had an eye dangling from its socket - I didn't look closely enough for definitive confirmation) to fly out the door he deemed most convenient.
I tapped the plastic container on the ground as I held it before me and may have said, "please go away, Mr. Bird." But apart from that, I was quiet - sighing with relief after he took flight into the morning sky and going about to close the doors again.
I talked much more on the cruise to Alaska I shared with my mom (and 2,000 other older people - half of them Southern Gospel fans). And I meant to post of it - at least to share some stunning photos of water gone green with glacial sediment in Tracy Arm or sea otters napping off the coast of Sitka.
But I came home and returned to work. I click in different locations on different screens. I sign and date and review and approve. I have flashes of amusement or anger or general interest, but they soon pass and I drift back into the monotonous contentment that defines me of late.
"The ambition is gone," I told Sibling when she returned to visit last week. "I keep waiting for myself to bounce back. To awaken and feel strong and purposeful and like Katie again. But I don't. I haven't. So I don't know what comes next."
So let's try photos from Alaska. And see if I can at least find a less-silent rhythm here.