I was very relieved to find the ghosts swimming tranquilly around in the front fountain this morning. The heater we place in the fountain to warm the waters and keep it from freezing both fish and cement, broke. The fountain was a solid block of ice straight to the bottom. Banquo and Casper spent over a week trapped in the bowels of a deep freeze. I had written about my youthful memories of a friend's fish pond earlier as a gris gris to secure their well being. It worked! This morning, the ice had melted and both of their white bodies glided smoothly though the murky water. It was a poultice for my soul.
This week, I have been immersed in a shipment of clay. I have whiled away my hours painting goofy Easter chickens on ceramic. After firing, they will set upon the most delightful metal chicken feet. I have giggled for hours. The Pappies and the Budgies think I have lost my mind.
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The budgies have been driving me crazy all week with the chortling and sashaying that has gone on in that cage. Pretty Boy Floyd has become quite smitten with Mozelle. Who could blame him with her flashy blue cheeks and Catawba worm colored plumage? She's a looker that one. He brings her the stripped millet twigs. He preens her. He sings her chirpy songs of love and desire.
She couldn't be bothered. It's like I have condemned her to a life long blind date with the nerdiest bird on the planet. "Really? Another twig, Floyd? You shouldn't have. I only have these forty-two hundred you gave me last week." (eye roll)
Sometimes, when she's sitting on my finger, I can see her looking around for an escape route. She's definitely not looking for love in any of the wrong or right places. The bird is frigid, I tell you.
Frigid.
I wonder what it would take to warm her soul?
