Trump, Putin, and a Broad-shouldered Hawk

Dear Maria,

I know, I know—I offer no excuses. Not because they’re lame, but because they don’t exist. Zip, zero, none. Weather has been lovely, at least. Now that is lame. But, the roses are reaching above my head, the ornamental grasses are seeding, and the azalea out front is blooming. Yep, the azalea. I’ll enclose a photo.

While I ate lunch on the patio, the bees and butterflies were busy in the lantana. Max? Oh, he was on his back, grinding in dirt and dead grass and some crushed leafy stuff so that it could be vacuumed up in the house, rather than raked up outside. Good boy.

I still avoid thinking much one way or the other about Trump’s campaign—I guess it is a campaign. My hunch is that he will grow weary dismissing the nagging questions on the trail, and even may come to recognize that being CEO, or whatever title he uses, has little to do with serving as the president and so no longer merits his attention.

Putin interests me a bit more as he directs a military—ever expanding—and certainly knows his country’s history in Afghanistan and with Chechnya. Syria? That he is a narcissistic bully is no great insight, but Syria?  Of course, when he looks in the mirror, the only face that seems to matter stares back. But maybe he is the grandest grand master of realpolitik, and I should continue ever so quietly to tend my garden. Good boy.

Watched a good-sized hawk make a kill last week. The bird swooped in low and dipped behind a white panel van parked in my neighbor’s yard across the street, and then it came back up with something in its talons, only a shadowy ball with a thin tail. Mouse or rat, I could not tell.

I changed out the bird seed in the feeder and so far the usual suspects mostly—wrens, finches, and chickadees. The doves keep to the ground beneath, but a blackbird has been at the feeder. Although not that large a bird, he looks Godzilla-like, hanging on to the wire. Brewer’s blackbird, I think.

No news yet that might decide when I might be on the move. I’ll keep in touch. Schedule for that being—well, TBA. I’ll do better.

Putinesque? Trumpism? Maybe not.

Enjoy the cooler weather even as the nights lengthen.

Yours, to be sure, 

srk