A rather damp, dreary day here along the river, with light showers, off and on, since sometime before dawn. Heavier rains are predicted for this afternoon, tonight, and early tomorrow. The temperature is going the wrong way, too; 39˚F currently, which is four degrees cooler than it was at 6:00 a.m.
Actually, this might prove a blessing in disguise, since I won't be able to get out and work in the yard. I'm not sure my back can take another day of raking up winter's debris, restacking firewood, moving stones, or digging new planting beds. I'm already to the point where the pain pills have no effect whatsoever. A weather-induced rest, and time to heal, may be God's way of forcing common sense on an otherwise hopeless case.
The yard geese have just ambled up the bank to see whether I tossed them any tidbits from breakfast. (Nope.) I will give them a scoop of cracked corn as soon as I finish this post. In the meantime, they can pluck at my grass and give me the evil eye through the window all they want—but I'm not going to become their flunky.
An hour ago I looked out the front window and saw a treetop full of turkey vultures. So late in the morning, it was obvious they'd been grounded by the weather. While not exactly early birds, most days the vulture contingent is up and away by mid-morning.
Actually there were several trees with vulture-littered crowns—I counted 73 sitting birds total, among four adjacent trees—plus more in the air, flapping from limb to limb or tree to tree, sometimes making a quick glide circle over the river or around a few additional trees before settling back down among the clan. Occasionally one of the vultures would spread it's wings into a classic drying/sunning pose…but only for a moment, since there was no warming sun and no hope of drying out damp feathers; all a poor buzzard could to accomplish was to chill his wingpits and appear even sillier than normal.
My funereal-cloaked neighbors looked bored by their forced rest—restless, anxious to get a'wing and off, soaring high, on the lookout for a tasty morsel of ripe roadkill. I know the feeling. I'm also anxious to get out and about myself—though I'm hurting too badly to do anything useful. I still want to be on the move, driving along a rural backroad, looking for wildflowers or spring buds, birds, critters, stopping to peer over bridges spanning country brooks and seeing if I can spot fish or tadpoles in the pools.
Spring has sprung, even if the weather has taken a backtrack. I don't want miss a moment.