Abbie and Stella spent the afternoon soaking up rays. I decided to join them at the kitchen table and catch up on my reading. I'm now totally current on The New Yorker; good-bye to that rolling six-month backlog stacked accusingly in the bedroom. I feel like I've accomplished something despite the fact that, like the cats, I appeared for several hours to be the very picture of sloth.
Yesterday, though, I was more overtly industrious, hauling out the stepladder and the long-handled loppers to prune those tall vertical suckers (the ones I could reach, anyway) off the plum tree in the back yard. It was lovely, up among the gnarled branches of that old tree, the sun hitting my face. I actually had to squint, til I remembered what baseball caps are good for.
I will get through this winter, as long as I remember to take my cue from the cats.