Matters of taste.

I knew what the sound represented right away when it woke me this morning, a scratching, scratching, scratching, but in that first fog could not place where. I sat up, looked around and focused. Outside the bedroom window? The roof? The cat heard it too. Scratch, scratch, scratch. In the ceiling just above my head. The same place as a couple years ago. Most likely a mouse honed in on another mouse's urine smell and thought this a good location. I'll be baiting the attic.

Certainly not much new here. Another essay. This one a bit rambunctious, even though, not certain foul words would fly, toned down a bit from earlier drafts. Still, based on what I've read from earlier discussions about this artist, there may still be an opportunity to let loose a few.

But no, not much new. Seasons cycle, which is sometimes enough excitement. The mallards are back, or rather, some mallards have taken up residency on the pond again. The hen is in the tall grass or briars somewhere near and the drake is still hanging around, meaning that the clutch is still being built. It is still a mystery where last year's mama and babies got off to after sighting them once. No evidence of feathers or even spent egg shells. Anyway, here's wishing them luck.

And the first opportunity I get, that stray tomcat is going to taste some lead. The compost pile is hungry.