I discovered four tiny daffodils. They were blooming in the front yard's ground cover. I cut them, put them in a tiny turquoise vase. I contemplated thievery: my neighbor has hundreds of these tiny daffodils. "Do you call them jonquils?" someone asked when I arrived at the officehouse. "I call them pretty," I told her, because it's been that kind of day. And we laughed, and a breeze picked up outside, and clouds lowered.
In the late afternoon, a lavender crocus might look lunar, might glow against stones and bark. I crouched to the ground--this was before it started to get colder--and shot strange close-ups of these self-envelopers.
In the later afternoon, I found a bird's nest hiding in a forsythia bush. I looked and looked until I saw the way the petals stripe at their joining.
By then the light was low and I wanted to go back to my book. But no, not the book I'm meant to be writing, not just yet. And why should it be so hard to write a book?
When one puts it that way, the answer seems clear enough. And so it is that tomorrow, I think, I will try not to write a book but instead to write some pages. I know better than the avoidance tricks I've been pulling with myself of late.