Waiting for the Bus

 We live in Paradise. Never is that more apparent than in September, when everything is ripe and full and the meadows haven't been mowed for awhile. Oh, I hate to see them mow right before fall, because then it stays barren all winter, no butterflies, no beautiful weeds sticking up out of the snow, no frost-rimed Queen Anne's lace. But the new guy who's tending our elderly neighbor's fields did come and mow it all down. These photos were taken before he came.

There's a little pair of eyes looking back at you in this first photo. You can see them better in this one:

It's been a very dry late summer. We're finally getting a slow soaking rain today. Chet and I ran anyway, and we both got a hot bath when we got home. Bad weather looks worse from inside a window. Once you're out in it, it feels kind of good. After the first mile.

 

When the bus comes, it trails a rooster-tail of dust behind it. On this day there was a sundog, too, a little strip of rainbow catching the 7:45 AM sunshine.

There is another little sundog who waits for the bus, too.

He guards Liam's pack, sits patiently and listens for the roar of the bus. He always knows when it's coming. He can hear it before we can.

        He checks for squirrelts in the huge pin oak overhead. He's never found one there, but he keeps checking anyway.

 

He's never more beautiful than in the morning sun, waiting for the bus, his satin coat gleaming. 

Here on Indigo Hill, where bluebirds sing the morning in.