Unlike Hamlet, Effie has no reason to “feign an antic disposition.” Her adorably quirky nature and acrobatic giftedness, even for a cat, are unfeigned. Cats frequent only reality. If they find they have miscalculated, they meant to.
Effie rises to greet her feathered mouse. After perusing an array of foreign grammars and dictionaries, she decides to investigate Spanish grammar. She returns to her hammock for a nap, and stretches her tummy to greet the day–and me!–again.
Small, cute, fluffy little guy, out on his own this morning. . .I think he’s a juvenile Downy woodpecker, a good 50 feet beyond my window.
First, Mr. Bullock’s oriole arrived in full dress. His selection of the garland perch right in our line of sight was so well considered. My dutiful Lumix appropriated his handsome image through the window.
Then came Lady Yellowthroat, cheery and quizzical, looking in on us.
The sun higher, the fog seems to march its clouds into position.
“The sands of time are sinking, the dawn of Heaven breaks;
The summer morn I’ve sighed for—the fair, sweet morn awakes:
Dark, dark hath been the midnight, but dayspring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth in Immanuel’s land.” (“The sands of time are sinking,” Anne R. Cousins)