The trees in Des Moines
are leafed out fully - I'd say they are probably a week or so ahead of the trees here. There - it's a great green murmuring. Here - it's a whisper perhaps.
We've got greyness overhead. That extended all the way west to Des Moines yesterday. Saturday was a hanging grey day too.
I have not been writing much. My writing likes a regular schedule, to bed by 8:45 p.m., up at 4:00 a.m., else it plays hide and seek and I can't depend on anything. Sometimes I can't depend on anything even if I do my voodoo rituals and my regular sleeping pattern. That's because when it finally comes down to it, writing is not something you choose, writing is something that chooses you. All you can do is be ready.
An oriole in a branch of the willow at the end of our driveway, in all its fireball orangeness. Color in the tulips along the garage, a few are nearly ready to open. The peonies are stretched to their full height, they don't seem to have set buds yet. The sky is starting to disappear behind some of the trees - those half-leafed out to the half-hidden sky.