This morning, I walked the dog down to the mailbox where the Wall Street Journal used to be delivered. Emphasis on used to be. I suspended my account because delivery became unreliable and sporadic. I’ll pick up the paper again in a few months when we return to South Carolina.
But I’ll still take that morning walk with the dog.
Instead of “catastrophizing” about the news of the day in the not-delivered paper, I listened. I listened to Midcoast Maine.
I heard the breathy whispers of loons on a lake. I heard the pine tree branches shuffling in the breeze.The air was cool and light. The misty morning sunlight left a moist sheen on the leaves. A tractor that was parked on the side of the road last week, in advance, i believe, of helping smooth out our rutted, unpaved, road. I heard the throaty grunt of frogs in the vernal pool about 100 yards away. Last year they were quiet because the pond was drained by a drought. This year, there’s plenty of water and the