A relaxed evening of cooking and a little writing. Windows open, firecrackers exploding far away in the background. George S. on the radio with guest Gord Downey, playing the man's favorite tunes. Out of nowhere, an Eagles song starts up, Take it to the Limit, Gord confessing that he heard that song in a liquor store once, and his knees buckled in response (although he managed to hang on to the bottle of rye he was carrying to the cash). I worry,he added, that one day, when I'm in my 70s, I'll hear that song and die as a result.
Ran about 65 minutes this evening. The goslings on my route are still yellowish but larger and less skittish than they seemed to me last weekend. The volume of traffic on this section of the path probably de-sensitized them by their second day. I passed by a large goose sitting regally in the middle of the path like it owned the place. Guess I wasn't intimidating enough to force it to move; it might have thought the same about me. The feeling that it was actually Saturday hung in the warmed air; pairs of rollerbladers everywhere; saw a man talking earnestly to an attentive duck, and a few large families crowded around picnic tables. When I got home, I saw that my face was a reasonable facsimilie of a rock salt-encrusted tomato, and I wanted a shower, a keg of water and something refreshing to eat and roll around in. Just kidding. Bean sprouts would feel weird.