The holiday was over.
So much for a January spent painting and sewing.
Silly season: not many moments for oneself, or to share with another. This moment twinkles: last Sunday over breakfast, watching the rock pigeons gleaning the lawn. One of them keeled over and stretched out a wing, as far as it could go. He lay there, lazily sunning the tender pink inside, the tiny white feathers.
Vlerke bak. I miss that.