I don’t know if it’s national news or not, but we’re having a heatwave in Alaska. Ay yi yi, it’s hot! I’m happy if I can shed long johns in the summer; this is day six of shorts, bare feet, and iced tea. It’s also very hazy due to wildfire smoke trapped by this high pressure system. I can see it, but I can’t smell it, and that makes it tolerable.

Anywho, the mail doesn’t stop as Alaska melts, and neither do my walks to the mailbox. Today, I contemplated willow seed puffs, floating in the air like pulp in just-poured orange juice, blowing in waves across the road, and piling up along the edges like snow. I scooped up a handful; it’s soft as rabbit fur.

I wondered how many of the little puffs go on to make plants and how many of those grow to shrubs and how many to trees. I compared the puffs to words I write, with comparatively few becoming part of a story or puzzle and even fewer making it to publication. I compared the puffs to novels that are attempted, with comparatively few becoming complete stories, and fewer still making it to publication.

I wonder if I can tie everything to writing and/or needlework.

I thought it would make an interesting blog post.

But then, on the way home, near the bottom of our driveway, a large bird took flight about twenty feet away, startling me. The mottled brown color and size made me think “young bald eagle” . . . until I saw two more large birds sitting on a low branch similarly close. I froze then slowly sat down, watched for a minute or two, and quietly backed away.

I hurried up the driveway and called to Mike to get his camera and come with me. The two were still there, sitting where I’d left them.

great-horned-owls.jpgReally. Who cares about willow seed puffs when you’ve got a family of great horned owls to watch?

I love walking to the mailbox.