Sunday afternoon, with small engine sounds

God, the days don’t get any better. 70s. Sunny. I spent the day on the deck working, shifting the deck brollie around to keep the sun off the screen. Only things in the sky were ghost images, silvery or white. Gulls. Jets, tiny as ice crystals, flying so high that that their contrails vanished almost immediately. Two white butterflies dancing mad helices around one another until they vanished behind some trees.

The pups have been active, dashing around and barking and playing between short, restorative naps. At some point, they unearthed a tennis ball. King has it now, and is currently lying on his back, ball in his mouth and feet in the air, while Gaby barks at him and tries to grab it away.

Most of the day was quiet, but I can hear a chainsaw down the street. Neighbor is splitting logs with a gas log splitter. Someone mowed their lawn and someone else is building something. Hammers banging.

I don’t want this day to end and it’s already too late. Sun’s down behind the trees and the air has cooled. I should pack up and go inside, but I don’t want to. I never want Mondays to come, but I really wish this next one would get lost along the way.

Mirrored from Kristine Smith.