Slave to Spring

It is Sunday morning. It is spring. After a Midwest winter, spring is a miracle every time. My community is at its peak -- white trees and pink trees and green grass and blue skies -- all better after my cataract operation, I must say. My cataract operation was my birthday gift last year from my mother. She signed the card "Your Private Eye." When I turn 60 I'm hoping for a knee replacement. But right now, I want to get out of the house.

My dog and I are going to cross the border -- we're going to the big house neighborhood and walk the most beautiful streets . We'll enjoy some Sunday Stendhal syndrome, and won't be home sitting and writing. This has been my slave to spring defense on the matter of excuses for not writing.