I’ve been hearing the little Bewick wrens chirping out on the patio. They are tiny but loud little things. They hop around among the plants and up to the patio door.
I keep trying to get a photo of them, but they are always gone by the time I get to the patio door with my camera. They are the birds that appear to have a white eye brow.
Nor have I seen the pretty black butterfly that I saw from inside earlier in the week. I keep watching for it, but either it hasn’t been back or I haven’t looked out when it was there.
I always plant a lot of flowers that the butterflies like to visit because they are so beautiful to watch.
This morning I heard a lot of bird commotion out there, so Charlie and I went out to see what was going on. I guess the birds were high up in the tree, for I couldn’t see them.
Charlie weaved in and out of the pots, seemingly on a mission. I think he smells the little wrens that have been hopping around out there.
I found an old photo of a Bewick wren to show you:
I look forward to seeing these little wrens every year because they are humorous to watch.
The hibiscus looks much better. But it isn’t blooming as much because it isn’t getting as much sun.
I have a choice I suppose. Either I choose to keep the plant alive under the tree branch overhang, or put it in the sun for more blooms. But it will surely die in the heat.
I choose to try to keep it alive. I like the reddish leaves and find them almost as interesting as the big red flowers.
There are places where even the sedum is fading in the sun. But what is planted in the piece of driftwood looks very healthy.
Each year that piece of driftwood gets more bleached out by the sun, but I love the texture and fading color.
I started a new book last night called “The Captives.”
As an inmate psychologist at a state prison, Frank Lundquist has had his fair share of surprises. But nothing could possibly prepare him for the day in which his high school object of desire, Miranda Greene, walks into his office for an appointment.
Still reeling from the scandal that cost him his Manhattan private practice and landed him in his unglamorous job at Milford Basin Correctional Facility in the first place, Frank knows he has an ethical duty to reassign Miranda’s case.
But Miranda is just as beguiling as ever, and he’s insatiably curious: how did a beautiful high school sprinter and the promising daughter of a congressman end up incarcerated for a shocking crime?
Even more compelling: though Frank remembers every word Miranda ever spoke to him, she gives no indication of having any idea who he is.
Inside the prison walls, Miranda is desperate and despairing, haunted by memories of a childhood tragedy, grappling with a family legacy of dodgy moral and political choices, and still trying to unwind the disastrous love that led to her downfall.
And yet she is also grittily determined to retain some control over her fate. Frank quickly becomes a potent hope for her absolution—and maybe even her escape.
Have a great weekend. I have no plans and Charlie and I will be home staying in out of the heat.