Mornings Become Them (Birds Edition)

Birds, birds everywhere.

Birds, birds everywhere.

615am–I get out of bed to let the dog outside and get back in bed forgetting to let the dog back in and he barks and I shoot out of bed not wanting the dog to wake the first grader and I let the dog inside and I get back in bed and the dog curls up on his saucer-bed by the bedroom bookshelves and for a second it’s quiet and then the house finches in the trees outside our bedroom window ignite in song, which wakes the keet who starts calling himself a good bird, such a good, good, bird, which wakes the Dragonbeast conure who shoots out of his yellow fuzzy cave-bed and rings his 6 dangling bells with attitude and I get out of bed and wheel the birds into the kitchen, flicking on the light before I leave them there so they won’t think I’m abandoning them, even though I am and they know it, and I get in bed and my iphone’s cello starts playing and I hear my husband’s limbs rustle sheets as he fights consciousness since he was up freelance writing until probably 3am so I get out of bed and the dog and I leave that scrumptious slumber-room and I shut the door behind us just in time to hear the coffee maker’s timer go off and at least there’s coffee and since I’m the only one in our house who drinks it I can be sure it’s just the car-oil-with-vanilla-cream way I like it and I pour myself a cup and sit before my Lenovo and focus on changing the climax of my children’s novel, making a mutant antagonist even more antagonistic, and after a bit my eye is caught by the bouquet of now wilting sunflowers w/roses my husband surprised me with for no reason a week ago and as the conure picks at a strawberry and the keet nibbles his slice of organic apple and the best light of the day for our house, morning light, illuminates interiors (and even wilting flowers) into paradise, I sip my coffee and wish for nothing (except, perhaps, more Muse, Muse, Muse…but who doesn’t wish for that…er, Her…). Good morning. Happy writing.

 

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About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, fortunate.
This entry was posted in Adult writing, Avoiding My Writing, books, Children's Books, dog, Faction, Fiction, middle grade, Parakeet, Pets, Poetry, Writer's Angst, Writing, Writing Progress, WTF and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Words do not escape you

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