Writing in the Yard

I've been sitting in the yard for 45 minutes now, trying to start a comment on Michael Ignatieff's mea culpa in last week's New York Times magazine. Admittedly the piece turned my brain to sludge for a week, but I should be able to churn something out. Yet, nothing.

Perhaps it's that I just can't write serious stuff unless I am inside, sitting at the table. It's not as miserably hot as usual, so I'm sitting in the yard, watching the cats play and listening to the sounds of the Sacramento evening--traffic, traffic helicopters--and watching Dash play with Little Pal from next door. Actually, I have to pay close attention to keep Little Pal from opening the screen door and heading for the cat food corner. He saw Emma open the door once and quickly mastered the skill. Constant vigilance is now required to keep him out.

Oh, yes, and there are mockingbirds and hummingbirds as well. They're noisy, but not as noisy as the blue jay and her adolescent we had living in the privet tree for awhile. The jay was teaching her issue to talk and this required practice. A lot of practice. Practice in the morning, practice in the afternoon, practice in the evening. And the kid didn't seem to be doing very well. So they practiced some more. I've never even considered a pellet gun before, and I'm sure I would never have done such a thing, but... I haven't seen them for about a week, so I figure the kid must have mastered the basics.

Perhaps is just that I don't have anything new to say about Iraq. One of the good things about having a blog of my own is that I have to read serious stuff. No hanging out on GardenWeb reading about tomatoes and aphids. No watching Onion Videos. That's probably a good thing, as I think my attention span may now be 6:02. But it also means that I discover that many other people have the same thoughts I do, and they frequently express them better than I would have. So I keep my own counsel, not wanting to repeat thoughts better expressed by others.