counting coots

Sometimes, all the synapses in the brain don't seem to have joined up first thing in the morning.  It might have something to do with wine.  It might not.  For a split second this morning, my brain had absolutely no understanding of what a squirrel was. None at all.  It was as if I had never, ever, seen a mammal with a big fluffy tail in my garden. It was climbing up a tree and oh so briefly I was thinking along the lines of 'what? - what the...' and then just as quickly dismissed it.  Bloody things.  If it wasn't for them I'd be able to have feeders for birds out in the winter.  They eat everything.  It left. 

Then, on the windowsill there was a Robin.  I peered at it.  It peered back.  I moved closer to it and peered at it some more through the gap where the window was open.  It peered back.  I turned my head to one side and moved closer.  It peered some more.  I peered back.  It flew off.  Now, if I was of a more artistic bent I might wax lyrical about the interconnection between man and nature in the new dawn, shared time in a precious moment, and maybe throw in fancy words like gossamer, perhaps even fecundity or maybe dank.  At a stretch. 

I'm not. 

The Robin looked a lot like this...