February almost always ends too soon, even in leap years. Tonight there's a valedictory full moon, moving in and out of high clouds, and it's the anniversary of our last big earthquake. Much too easy to think "We're next,"after recent events in Haiti, Okinawa, and now Chile.
I've just displaced Sparky, who was curled in a favorite warm spot (corner of the couch, directly under the reading lamp) but she has found enough space to regroup. We also "share" a favorite chair (translation: she commandeers it the minute I get up.)
Cheers for the Canadian men's hockey team. I was, after all, born in Kamloops, and spent some formative years in a frozen-over prairie town where the ice rink was the entertainment and recreation center. Cigar smoke on a cold day still reminds me of going to curling matches with my grandfather.
Ian and I checked out the Ballard Sunday Market, where kale and cabbages and apples and honey and cheese and fresh fish and flowers and shoppers and dogs and musicians and stuffed toys and knitted hats and jewelry and pastries and hot dogs and home-made ice cream bars all co-exist on two blocks of Ballard Avenue.
What I really wanted was a better picture of the small dog in the pink sweater. It was only a bit larger than the stuffed cats and monkeys.
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