Three Notes and a Falling Trill

I dreamed we had bought or rented a house in England. By "we," I mean Mama, Daddy, the girls and me. It was an ugly house but very big and square, sort of rusty-looking brick, and it sat in a field facing banks that looked as if they had been flooded many times. But I was thrilled that we had a real house. I kept hearing this bird call, and I said to Mama, "That's a meadowlark!."

Then I thought to myself something like, "You don't know a meadowlark call from a fog horn. The only bird call you can identify is a crow."

 

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A tranquil day in the neighborhood:

 

Gretchen with her head jammed against the arm of the sofa;

 

Mo curled up in the litter pan. He has a blanket and a beach towel to sleep on, but this is his choice, clean or dirty.