The stone owl

It is early in the morning, kind of, 9am is early enough for a Saturday. I am in the sunny balcony, the stone owl is looking at me with its impassive eyes and the smirk of its mouth, impervious to the cold.

My memory tells me that forty years ago the ground was covered with the deadening white blanket, absorbing all sounds until the morning become as it is supposed to be, as it was all those years ago, becoming less and less cold with every passing year until now, when snow became a memory how the weather was.

Yannick is on my lap, she likes to come with me into the balcony, even in winter. This morning, after breakfast, she was waiting for me.

I haven’t seen the sparrows, tits, and other birds, coming to the feeders. However, I am in the process of changing the main feeder from a plastic to a clay one, it is new, so they need to get used to it. Although I have already seen some blue tits feeding from it.

Give time to time.

It is a cold morning, too. I will be monitoring the situation. If I remember well, the clay feeder has the blessing of the RSPB.

Yannick got fed up with me as I was not giving her the attention she craves, and left my lap.

The sun is warming me now. The black coffee I am having is invigorating.

Yannick is so beautiful when the tangential sun rays illuminate her, the reddish tones of her black coat and her white whiskers becoming highlighted.

She is so graceful, so elegant. She is a sacred cat coming from ancient times.

My coffee is getting cold.

The spider webs, illuminated by the warmth of the sun, fill my eyes, now.

The chirping of birds can now be heard as the coldness of the morning is receding, their cheerful sound caressing my ears.

Oh, the green eyes of Yannick! As the warmth increasingly surrounds us, she is becoming more attuned to the cheerful sounds and sights around us.

Otherwise, the silence is every so often disrupted by the wing flapping of the pigeons flying away, disturbed by something I could not see or hear, or feel.

I look now thru the kitchen window, past Bella, the shadows of the balusters imprinting the white surfaces of the plants shelf.


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