I think I see lightning.

Rain drop on nose.

How to describe the shade of red on the woodpeckers? Saying “red” doesn’t feel adequate. Carmine? Cornell? Fire Brick? Madder? Turkey Red?

I don’t have enough eggs. It’s overcast. It’s going to rain. This is not normal. It’s my curse.

I could live here forever.

Well, I’m definitely not going to hear anything now.

A wine barrel painted black. In white letters, “BLM.”

Belated birthday dinner of smoked chicken, broccoli, and rice.

I ask him if it’s my imagination or are there more “Black Lives Matter” signs here than the last town.

Cookies and cream ice cream cake. Something like a cool breeze.