Thirty-One: Week Forty-Nine
Days three hundred and thirty-seven through three hundred and forty-three
Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them here.
Day Three Hundred and Thirty-Seven (March 28th) Today, I drove past a group of three black vultures sitting on the grassy area to the side of the road. I did a double-take when I realized what I was seeing. They weren’t feeding or even searching for food; they were just sitting out in the open. I’ve never been so close to those gorgeous raptors before. I’m glad I could linger for a moment before the light turned green. Day Three Hundred and Thirty-Eight (March 29th) When I hear seagulls call in a place with no sea, I also hear the ocean breaking and feel the sand between my toes. If I close my eyes, the concrete disappears, and I’m left floating beneath the sun. Day Three Hundred and Thirty-Nine (March 30th) I had another incredible bird sighting today. A great egret flew into my backyard, wandered around for a bit, and flew off again. They’re so common here. That wasn’t even the first one to visit my yard. Even so, I always stop to watch them when they’re near. Their grace and beauty are no less captivating than those of the great ballerinas of the world. They demand attention, and I’m happy to give it to them. Day Three Hundred and Forty (March 31st) I hear myself speaking as if from a great distance, calling back to the me who’s been lost in the wilderness, crying out for a way home Day Three Hundred and Forty-One (April 1st) I’ve been visited by some gorgeous birds this week, but there is one bird I hate with a fiery burning passion: the snowbird. They’re like tourists who never leave. They have no idea where they’re going and can’t drive properly even when they know their destination. They crowd out the natives, and their incessant screeching and squawking is only marginally less irritating than their driving. I can’t wait for their migration back north, where they belong. Day Three Hundred and Forty-Two (April 2nd) Sometimes stereotypes are true, like how whenever I’m dropping an egg, all I want to do is murder the world. Day Three Hundred and Forty-Three (April 3rd) The weather calls for severe storms, but all that wind and rain opens my spirit as wide as the sky
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