Another coldish day, thick low grey skies, wind that combs the branches of the peppertree into slanting swags of green fronds and brittle pink pepperberries hanging over the backyard fence. Every so often it drizzles -but not enough to matter, just enough to wet your whistle.
I may go down to my friend's pond, walk the circumference two or three times, listening for the sweet lyrics of the song sparrow, the warlbling tunes of the finches, the guttural croak of an egret, so incongruous of its elegance.
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Noise makers!