Today I read a little fifty page biography of Beatrix Potter, whose story intrigues me, as it strikes me as such a period piece. At lunch, I took a brief walk at the little lake park in nearby Rowlett. The weather was warm--winter seems a distant memory now. I like this time of year because of all the miniature flowers--tiny, pristine, almost un-noticed. I passed a fisherman on the creek bed on the edge of the park. I thought at first he did not understand my question--but then it turned out he was telling me that his bread sack was filled with catfish. I walked back to my car as killdeer called in shrill tones and flew by.
By the end of the afternoon, a heavy rain fell--it looked and felt so grand.