Monday, Monday

While on Sunday I seem always to be thinking about politics, probably on account of the newspapers we read, Mondays are different. Fortunately. On Monday, we're propelled back into our weekly routine, hurtling forward to accomplish the items on our to-do list, lacking the time or inclination for mulling the fate of nations. It's a relief, frankly.

This Monday, here at Winedale, there is rain. Yep. That wet stuff falling on the tin roof. The air is misty with it. A woodpecker has just let out a long run of his medium-pitched clacking sound. On the road, a truck rolls slowly by, its tires slushing a little across the damp surface. Our road used to be a reddish gravel, but in the past few years the county has decided to top it with a caliche mixture, whitish, that splashes up on your car's backside in a very unpleasant way.

The country is relatively quiet in January, however. The restaurants are mostly empty. Tourists tend to stay home, which is a shame because the countryside offers some rewarding pleasures this time of year. The monochrome landscape is wonderfully subtle in its variations. With the understory knocked back, the skeleton of the land is more visible. Barns and houses appear where you've never noticed them before. And, no, they're not new construction, thank heaven.



And sometimes, driving along one of the roads, you will see surprising sights. These llamas are definitely not an indigenous animal, hereabouts.