I am reluctant to go up to the mountain, when there is so much project catch-up to be done. To top it off, I am unsure as to whether I fractured my hand--after another entertaining fall for the public caused by my evidently not-trained-enough basset--scraped, bloody knees and all being a "sexy" bonus.
But I'm here.
So I sit on the balcony editing a hardcopy of one of those projects not so much to catch up anymore, but to get my mind off the possibility that I wouldn't be able to swim if I were indeed that injured. (I'm not, after all!)
Periodically, I record the changes in the landscape unfolding below me, especially the daylight Moon, though adjusting manual focus on a giant telephoto lens with a temporarily damaged hand makes it a bit of a challenge.
Then I recall that our ancestors, the Neanderthals, continued to hunt the woolly rhino despite having broken ribs--and stop whining!
I get my motivation in all the right places.
Break comes at sundown.
We take the dogs out for a brief walk. There is something stealthy and predatory stalking us all the way back along the cliff above. We can't see it or hear it, but the dogs react to its scent with a blend of curiosity and caution (rather than a gleeful chase into the green, as is the case with mule deer and grouse).
I secretly hope it was a mountain lion.
With the Sun gone, I'm back indoors to continue late-night editing.
Leaves rustling in the wind. Crickets. A noise wall of crickets!
An owl hoots in the distance at regular intervals. It's talking to the Moon illuminating the water.
And to me.