I’d been in the house all day, and was antsy as could be. The body needed exercise, and there was a mailbox a half mile away, a mailbox that might have items in it. No further excuse needed.
At the bottom of the valley, where the road crosses the brook, is a yard with a big red oak tree. The local flock of feral turkeys — they’re not really wild — is accustomed to using this tree to roost in overnight. They were half of them still on the ground and half of them in the tree as I walked by. The air was full of flapping wingnoises and a mix of settling-in squawks and chirps.
I cut across the Bird’s seven-acre field. I have cut across this field thousands of times in the last sixty years. The trees are much bigger than they were back then, but otherwise it looks pretty much the same.
I admired the old West place. (The Birds own it now.) The sun had set. Light was fading.
Overhead was an evening star.
Angled clouds moved in lastlight colorfade.
Bill and Sophie’s house, neglected for a few years after they died, has changed hands and is being fixed up. A tenant has moved in. Lights are on at night again.
Next door, lights are on at John’s house. This yard was where us “town” kids got together for nighttime lawn games.
We played “Wooly”, “Hamhamchickenhambacon”, “Sardines”, and “Last One”.
A car drove by, lighting verge and tree.
Looking SW again, the sky’s last colors were the setting for Gertrude Turner’s old place.
At the end of Music Street is the Church.
Thursday afternoon/evening is choir practice time.
There was mail in the box.
Including a book that had been ordered a few weeks ago.
It’s nice to get a book in the mail.