Yesterday morning I found a mushroom like a white paper parasol for a tiny doll.
Last night thunder which made the windows rattle repeatedly jolted me from the edge of sleep and forced me into mental inventories of the things in my room which could potentially fall off the shelves and break because of the shaking. Nothing fell.
Between times, I went to dinner with a moving-away friend; early in the parking lot, I sat and watched an orange wind-sock in my side mirror. I associate wind-socks with little airports from my childhood, but there was no sign of airport in my side mirror.
After dinner, we sat beside a man-made lake and saw a small alligator swimming.
A single day lily has, improbably, bloomed in the yard. (Improbably, because deer nibble on lily bulbs and we often entertain deer.)
We spied it during a mid-morning power outage, when we sat in the doorway, drinking hot tea and watching rain drip from the front-porch roof.
I tiptoe about, hoping to catch inspiration unaware, but it evades me, so that at best I glimpse the tip of its retreating tail around a corner. But I remember the glimpses.