A bright morning yesterday, so bright we had to sit with our backs to the sun to read the paper and drink tea. What did the day hold?
Planting cabbages for sure. Also, marigolds from my friend Mary in Nelson. She’d sent a box of comfrey roots, lettuces and marigolds home with me, in a different life when we drove places and visited friends. Last week, for instance.
I loaded the car with waratahs and old sheep netting from Nelson and drove to my front paddock where the sheep have been chewing my newly planted natives, the flaxes and cabbage trees and rushes. I whammed in the waratahs and rolled the netting out, stretching it to hook on each waratah in some semblance of fencing.
Every day the sixty or so perendales Barry has put in here to knock my long grass back, walk in long trails across the paddocks as if they’ve heard in the far corner there might be something better. One way, then an hour later, single file again. Their backs shine in the sun when the sun is setting, and the other day when it snowed, they walked single file with a layer of snow upon their backs. Now, they have to skirt my new fence, and perhaps the flaxes and cabbage trees will raise new leaves.
In the afternoon, sick, so that I crawled thankfully into bed while it was still light, books, and laptop, and sleep. Just good. But shitty too, and no energy to write or be useful in anyway. For a change I read covid symptoms again, then read again the numbers and where they’re spread, and again the ones found in Central Otago.
Brian calls in morning and night to check on me. When I open the back door to tip out coffee grounds, he has left a box of chopped kindling by the step. At night, I can’t get tv to work but Netflix works so I watch that till late, not even guilty, the fire glimmering.
In the morning when the sheep walk past, one has a row of six starlings on its back.