The insects have started their full nightly mantra. Spring is churning, summer's hand is reaching, you can feel it. We've had just enough rain for things to be green. I'm grateful for this small, removed place, this work. Bare feet. Slow busy-ness.
Last night, after the lights were out, I could hear moths flying against the windows, so many of them, they could carry the house away if they had a plan.
A house sparrow has made a nest in the potted pittosporum by the French doors of the studio. It's full of eggs now. She is nesting fiercely. Thursday she flew inside, swooping past my head, sounding a surprisingly loud warning for me to vacate. After I did, she flew right back out the window and carried on tending her eggs. I admire her ferocity, her instinctual defense of her life's work and territory.
I feel a nesting urge now, too. Though not for the sake of babies. A brazen redecorating streak is simmering. Imagining more plants inside, more color everywhere, less clutter, more inspiration. I want this little country house to hold incubation space for art and artists, the creative process, clarity.
The cable has been cut off. Let the nesting begin.