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.

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

I love walking to the mailbox.