Coffee: Honduras, Cooperativa Raos.
It sounds like Spring. I can hear birds. One of them has been going at it for awhile. It’s in a tall pine tree, I think, and it keeps saying ‘chirp-chirp.’ No-one says much back. It sounds like a numbers station.
I also hear a squirrel. I walked out the door and down some steps and the squirrel was chattering in the bushes. It must be hard work to go hunting again for nuts, berries, whatever squirrels eat. In the winter they fatten up with stashes in the ground. Life keeps going, and as soon as you’ve gotten used to something it has a habit of changing. I’ve been looking at pictures of winter. It’ll come again.
Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
““Dead my old fine hopes
And dry my dreaming but still…
Iris, blue each spring” – Matsuo Basho