In our garden Saturday morning, I saw fuzzy-bottomed bees nosing the cotoneaster, and as I sat there, my bare feet warm in the sun, a moss-coloured waxeye came within an arm's length of me. With its white-bordered eyes entirely focussed on the flowers alone, it was unaware I was even there. Lucky I wasn't a cat, or that greedy little fellow would be long-gone.
And at that moment, I admit it, I was perfectly, completely, deeply happy. It puzzles me why this should feel like an admission to a guilty secret.
A question for Dinzie - what are these flowers called (some sort of tussock?)
A welcomed cuppa always makes me feel very happy. It's the simple things. K.I.S.S.