By D.H. Lawrence
The youth walks up to the white horse, to put its halter on
and the horse looks at him in silence.
They are so silent, they are in another world.
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Thursday morning was pretty quiet around here -- a bunch of computer work, a couple of phone calls fighting with the post office and a shipping company over a Kickstarter package I never got that everyone blames someone else for. We watched the Orioles lose to the Red Sox around lunch, then we took a walk; it was a little chilly but sunny and beautiful. One of the pairs of eagles seem to be making a nest west of the lake, but the other pair were right by the water, watching the cormorants and ducks.
My Thursday night chat group talked for a couple of hours about politics and entertainment, after which we watched Ghosts (I like the new '40s Hollywood ghost but Thor needs to grow up), followed by Doctor Odyssey (the nepo baby spring break episode with Paris Jackson and Ava Phillippe; everyone needs to grow up but it gets very didactic when they try). Now we're watching The Wheel of Time with its kick-ass women and men I mostly don't care about. Horses at Farrel-McWhirter farm last weekend:
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