Twice this week I’ve been glad to have my monocular (a.k.a. spyglass) with me on hikes. Today I got a good, long look at a green heron in a marsh on Crabtree Creek, standing in patient fishing pose: hunched, dwarfish, dark, and for a moment wildly crowned, but with those unmistakable deadly heron eyes. Tuesday I saw a snake come out of Falls Lake with a fish in its jaws and sit at the water’s edge a minute. Probably a copperhead but the shadows of the leaves threw their own patterns and I wouldn’t swear it wasn’t a Northern water snake. Apparently I’m the only one not fishing.

I’m not much of a gearhead and don’t like carrying extra stuff with me when I’m walking, but I have really enjoyed having the lens. (More than I would enjoy carrying a camera with a telephoto lens, so: no pictures. Sorry.)

My God, the carnage!
Blood red stains the walls, the floor—
Pickled beets. Ten pints.

The finished carving I posted in progress last week, and some reflections on the process: Sunflowers and sameness, thinking about art, agriculture, and artificial intelligence.

The lack of rain in April held back the blooms, but the front yard flowers have finally taken off this week.

Currently reading: Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling by Carole Satyamurti 📚

…and will be for some time, as I’m only reading a chapter or two a day. For now, I’ll ignore centuries of scholarly debate and declare that blank verse really is the way to go for epic poetry in English.

Stopping place. Time for dinner!

Last night I had an idea for an over-the-top satire of a reality show that I was going to post here, but then I read this headline from the WSJ:

DHS Is Considering Reality Show Where Immigrants Compete for Citizenship

…and I can’t top that, so never mind.

Hey, you know that thing that was happening, the one we were all angry about a few weeks ago? Is that still going on? Everybody stopped talking about it and I just need to know if I’m still supposed to be angry or not.

The Carolina Wren is filled with rage.
I wonder why?
He’s caught the spirit of the age,
Poor little guy.

(Actually, he’s probably angry because I keep taking his half-built nest out of the mailbox.)

When my generation said we wanted to quit the rat race, we were slackers. When Gen Z does it, they’re charming, philosophical, and a boon to humanity. I wish the little &$%*ers better luck than we had.