spending time

It is a quiet morning.  Too quiet.

My mornings in Salem were once filled with a chorus of territory-defending, mate-searching bird song. The tapping of crows in the trees.  The scurry of squirrels across the roof.

Not this morning.  And, come to think of it, not during any of my trips north during the last three months.

It is late fall.  But it is not as if I lived in the Yukon where the wildlife migrated or took its long winter siesta.  This is Oregon.  With winters milder than wildlife-infused Pátzcuaro.

The only sound is the whir of commuter tires on the damp pavement -- pavement well past the petrichor stage.  Cars filled with workers with one thing on their minds.  Getting to work.  Too focused to notice the lack of natural noises.

But i have time.  Some, at least.  Enough to be prodigal.  As I wait in my museum-fresh home awaiting the arrival of the realtor who will reward my work with a sign in my front yard.

No gold star.  Just the first step of reducing an asset to its more portable capital value.

Even so.  I would have preferred a few birds singing their approval of my choice.  But birds have other cares.