It was a long day. Fun, but long. Got some writing in; not nearly what I wanted, but enough to keep the creativity going.
We had some errands to run today. Before we left, I went out to check the mail and was pleasantly surprised to see a group of White Ibis snacking on the lawn.
I didn’t bother checking the mail; I didn’t have the heart to disturb them.
One of our errands took us to the bookstore. I continued my trend as a notebook addict and purchased a new one. It has a hard back and spiral binding. The inside is lined, and has already been christened with both writing and a picture. Here’s what it looks like:
My husband also found a pretty interesting looking book which has been added to my ‘To Read’ list:
I have a pretty full work day tomorrow, so I’m off to bed. I thought I’d leave off with a poem tonight.
Last Boat
By Betsy Sholl
We were waiting for the ferry,
lolling on the lowest ramp, on floats,
shifty with wave slush, dip and sway.
We were sun-seared, sapped, soaking in
the latticework, wooden scaffolding,
stacks of lobster traps, pilings stained black
from creosote and tar, green with seaweed
combed out on receding waves, swirled back
by water’s slap and curl: levels and lengths
of working docks, creaky planks, crossbars
of tacked asbestos for stopping the slip
on slick days–the whole wet rush,
the gleaming run-down fertile place.
We were sitting on a dock of the bay,
watching how matter melts into
quivery silks of light, a brilliant seethe,
a glittery tease of there
and not there, such dazzling manna.
We were squinting through shadows
at little flamelike fish flickering
among weeds–a whole world it seemed
flaring under the ramshackle,
barnacled, rock-bottom dock, all flow
and flown, and we were resting in
the brevity, the breve, breviary,
the never-ending not-me: waiting
for the ferry, wishing it wouldn’t come.
Little Conversations 