Beneath the Passing Birds

Yesterday, from high in the clear blue sky, came the sound of Sandhill Cranes. A deep throated bubbling call that is unmistakable once you see the cranes and hear the sound. When we lived in Alvin a flock wintered in the field just down the road from our home. I’d see them every morning on my way to work. Tall, leggy birds eating rice and doing crane things. I looked up yesterday to see if I could see them once again, but they were gone, passing through, heading south. Fleeting memories, blown away on the hard wind.

With the birds gone, I went about my work. Did a little mowing. Walked about the yard. Dug in the dirt. I even dug a few weeds. A surprising amount of Khaki weed is still in evidence. I filled a bucket with my diggings. Their seeds are about to pop and a few stuck in my fingers as I pulled them free from the soil. I may have missed some plants and spread a few seeds, but it was more than offset by the quantity in my bucket. If each seed head contains 20,000 seeds, then I removed millions of potential plants yesterday. It felt like a good day.

In the evening I fired up the grill for the weekly sit-down dinner with my son. We usually try to do it on Sunday, but last Sunday was wet and messy. NY strip was on the menu. The lump charcoal burned hot and even, and the steaks were prepared to the right temperature in no time. Gone are the amateur days of constant turning. It’s on, turn, done. The meal was topped off with baked potatoes and mixed vegetables if anyone cares to know. I’m not sure what we’ll have next week, but NY strip sure is good and it’s not like we eat it every day.