Sunday

The rain didn't amount to much, though the change in the atmosphere after so many days of hot, sunny, smoky, broke me from inertia.

I woke early, wind blowing through the windows.  Finished the Brian Wilson book, then got dressed and walked over to the library to drop it off.  Detoured through the park, it was quiet, not many birds around.  As I walked back out toward the road, I heard something fall from a tree:  an apple with a bite out of it bounced against the front of a parked car.  I went over to take a closer look: it fell from a tulip tree.  I suppose some animal had stashed it up there for safe keeping, though it seemed like a large apple for a squirrel to manage.

I stopped by a coffee shop, every one was cleaning.  I had to ask to make sure it was open, I was assured it was.  I was the only person purchasing anything, a man sat reading a paper behind a merchandise display.  It's almost always packed.

I came home to make breakfast, got side-tracked with another book, "Night Train to Lisbon" by Pascal Mercier, and then reminded myself I needed food in my stomach for the Prednisone.  After I ate, I started cleaning the house, and after three hours am taking a break.  I think the bath mat shrunk, and someone pissed on the floor again, after I wiped it up.  It's a losing battle.

Seems like time to let things change.