I’ve heard tell it’s the little things that count. I tend to agree with that assessment. In life and love, I’ve had it prove out. And sometimes I think it’s a good way to measure the advance of civilization.

I thought I had fallen out of love with camping. Bugs, weather, and discomfort having done me in. But when I stepped out of my tent this past Saturday morning, I realized we were still a couple.

Another cool, blessed morning. This time the birds were waiting for me to bring out the feeder. A little Carolina Chickadee and a Titmouse were in the trees.

It’s nice to know we’re heading into June with 60 degree mornings. I’d like to send an official thank you to New Mexico and everyone to the northwest for sharing their cool air with us. Keep up the good work…

We got an inch of rain last night, my hand is healing nicely, and I’m back in the wordy saddle. It feels as though I got a good night’s sleep. Lots of dreams. I mean seriously, lots of them and really detailed, too, but none worth repeating.

Life at the bird feeder is heating up. Word is out, and creatures big and small are showing up.

Again, the fury of the storm raged in the sky around me last night, but little came of it. Once, late, there was a lightning flash that seemed close by, but the rumble of thunder gave it away, coming late and slow.

Spent the day yesterday doing something I could easily do every day. Read a book and listened to music. But not just any music. I started going through the box of vinyl I bought for $10 at a garage sale. It’s 90% classical.

It’s cool this morning. It feels like spring. The air is fresh and clear. There’s still a hint of moisture from the days of rain. There’s a breeze, too. New green sprouts cover almost everything in the garden.

Sometimes, things just click and go your way. The other day I thought my money clip lost. I checked pockets. I checked dressers. I checked tables. Time passed. Then it came to me. A thought. I went to the car. Opened the center console. There it was.

I’m halfway to healing. My hand is on the mend. It’s been a week. I took my last antibiotic this morning. The squamous cell carcinoma is gone. In another week I’ll get the stitches out.

I have birds. Little ones. At the feeder. Taking a bite. Flying off to eat. Black-crested Titmouse. Carolina Wren. Female goldfinch. Cardinals.

It’s done. Our day of music is in the books. We set up the gear beneath the shelter of a large outdoor pavilion, but pounding rain on a metal roof plays to a louder beat than even the most well amplified guitar.

I’m in the country in a very fine house and it’s raining to beat the band. Seriously, the heavens have opened up and are trying to dump all the water in the world right on top of us.

Bought a new bird feeder. It’s designed to defeat house sparrows and squirrels. The food in the new feeder sits in a tube surrounded by wire mesh that slides down when something heavy hangs on it.

Two days in on my hand surgery and I’m feeling a little down, mainly kicking myself for not doing it sooner, made worse by having to do everything left-handed.

The year of the medical procedure continues. Skin surgery. I had a squamous cell carcinoma removed from the back of my right hand yesterday.

For the longest time I had two easy chairs sitting side by side facing the TV. It was how we organized the living room when we moved into our new home.

Good morning. The house is quiet. The kids are all asleep. Dad should still be asleep as well, but sunlit windows tell dads brain the day has started and what in the world are you doing in bed.

No sooner did I speak of it than it happened. The rock rose bloomed. Once upon a time it was ensconced beneath a young crape myrtle growing in a tiny little garden spot by the front porch.