Chris’s parents, Karen and John, invited us over for dinner Friday. Sometime during the night, Karen said to me, “How come you only have photos of women from the gallery opening? I wanted to see Merriam’s art.” (If Karen is reading this she now knows what liberal gobs of poetic license I use to recreate these conversations.) I scurried behind the prickly bushes of It’s not my fault, I shouldn’t have been taking photos anyway defense. After dinner I ran home and zoomed in on a few of those photos .
We also talked about all gold, gold finches, which both Diane and I claim to have seen on the thistle feeder. I couldn’t find the photo I bragged about, so today I sat motionless in my truck, window open, about three feet from the feeder, and waited for the unsuspecting to land. Nope, no birds without black wings, except for one little guy who looks like a finch in winter.