I might be in the minority when it comes to sparrows. I feel sorry for them. Growing up surrounded by bird lovers, I heard many a lament about the number of sparrows dining on suet and birdseed that was intended for the chickadees, cardinals and finches. Only the squirrels were hated more for this infraction. […]
January. I always thought the name had a cold, funereal sound. It implies a silence broken only by gusts of frigid, snow-laden winds crashing against windowpanes.
Every December 31st and January 1st I find myself floating on a sort of New Year’s euphoria. Suddenly, time becomes a clean, white, empty slate upon which we can write, a blanket of newly-fallen snow. The possibilities are endless, and the first footsteps to mark that landscape are special. I’m always in a hurry to begin.
When I lost Ninja this week, I realized that the worst thing I could do would be to wander away from my writing – whatever form that may take.
When I was a kid, I had a taste for Coca-Cola. Nowadays, I prefer a nice rich cup of coffee to a sugary or fake-sugary soda.
