I'm a writer, publishing both as SJ Rozan and, with Carlos Dews, as Sam Cabot. (I'm Sam, he's Cabot.) Here you can find links to my almost-daily blog posts, including the Saturday haiku I've been doing for years. BUT the blog itself has moved to my website. If you go on over there you can subscribe and you'll never miss a post. (Miss a post! A scary thought!) Also, I'll be teaching a writing workshop in Italy this summer -- come join us!
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Rainy spring day
It was so beautiful at the river this morning. Raining, but not cold, and not windy; still, for some reason I was almost alone. No dogwalkers, no joggers, none of the maintenance guys who usually rumble their barrels slowly along the walk as they pick up trash. One guy with golf clubs and a cell phone; must have come from hitting a few at Chelsea Piers, getting a jump on the season, now calling his office to make sure nothing happened while he was so temporarily out of touch. He lost points with me for the golf (don't get my golf rant started) but gained them back for walking in the rain with a smile and no umbrella.
The rain swept in gentle sheets along the surface of the river, which was surprisingly calm. Two mallards, a male and a female, tromped along the grass, nibbling. (Do mallards eat worms?) These two like that particular patch, and the other day I saw the male there and not the female, leading me to worry she's nesting in the bushes. That only seems like a good idea in weather like this. When it gets sunny again and people start to picnic and play frisbee, I think they'll realize they've made a mistake. The ducks, not the people.
The small red and yellow tulips stayed closed but looked gorgeous, glowing against the green grass and the brown mulch under the trees. The stone walks glistened, and so did the trees, both bark and fresh new leaves, as though everything were varnished. The wooden rail darkened and the aluminum glowed and the blue lights in the handrail supports came on. And as I passed, a young seagull, his wing and tail feathers still brown and his sides still spotted, swooped in and landed on one of those supports as though railing-sitting were a recommended exercise in the seagull handbook and he was trying it for the first time. He kept turning to look at me, first one eye, then the other, but he wouldn't fly away. I finally realized he was actually interested not in me but in the ducks. They were clearly eating something, and he was hoping it was something gulls liked, too. I left them to it.
The rain swept in gentle sheets along the surface of the river, which was surprisingly calm. Two mallards, a male and a female, tromped along the grass, nibbling. (Do mallards eat worms?) These two like that particular patch, and the other day I saw the male there and not the female, leading me to worry she's nesting in the bushes. That only seems like a good idea in weather like this. When it gets sunny again and people start to picnic and play frisbee, I think they'll realize they've made a mistake. The ducks, not the people.
The small red and yellow tulips stayed closed but looked gorgeous, glowing against the green grass and the brown mulch under the trees. The stone walks glistened, and so did the trees, both bark and fresh new leaves, as though everything were varnished. The wooden rail darkened and the aluminum glowed and the blue lights in the handrail supports came on. And as I passed, a young seagull, his wing and tail feathers still brown and his sides still spotted, swooped in and landed on one of those supports as though railing-sitting were a recommended exercise in the seagull handbook and he was trying it for the first time. He kept turning to look at me, first one eye, then the other, but he wouldn't fly away. I finally realized he was actually interested not in me but in the ducks. They were clearly eating something, and he was hoping it was something gulls liked, too. I left them to it.
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