A whole month of early mornings in my office but now I know that the birds that live under the air conditionings that jut out from Bingham Hall casting shadows across the plaza, wake and sing from six thirty to seven forty-five a.m. and then stop. I wonder why seven forty-five or is it seven forty-five when I begin to hear voices and the door to the stairs open and close in the hallway behind my office door. The black-headed chickadees that live under the air conditionings look so fine in contrast to the dogwood growing up against the red brick of Bingham, blooming more and more pink–I swear the flowers sprung out white and now are pink, even a florid magenta where the petals are beginning to wrinkle. A bad year for pollen someone said when I sneezed too close to them. I wanted to vomit when I saw the small pond of a puddle in a parking lot, the yellow dust swirling in designs that would look so beautiful upon a beach drawn in the sand. Vines are slung all over the fence in the backyard and in three days we will open up the bedroom window and the wind will blow in the purple smell of wisteria through the screen. The ants are already back in the kitchen. The allium is putting out stems, soon there will be more purple to invite into the house.
In the papers and projects and grading, there is so much color to life these days.