Creativity grinds to a halt. Wants and desires and interest pale beneath the necessary. I must clean the cellar for the plumbers coming Saturday to replace all copper pipes.
Tired, sweaty, aching from the motion of the hoe or rather the potatoe fork I use which works much better. Sitting on the back step for a pause I catch a streaker; a blaze of orange as a red fox races by. Grabbing the binoculars because he goes so fast I think I’ll need them, racing barefoot across the lawn to view the backfields where he went. No luck, too quick, and then I do remember to look behind me from where he came perhaps to catch what might’ve put him in a run.
If I can do the preparation cleaning work this morning, I can sit down and break the main computer down this afternoon.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology