It’s sunny out here today and Chutney is confused.  Usually we spend the mornings curled up in my den, with him on his bed on the desk beside me, gazing out the window and sniffing the air.  CBC plays in the background and Dora the parrotlet comments on Q with her usual sarcastic chirps.

Today, though, it’s too lovely to be inside.  The sun is here and shining on my balcony, and around me instead is the gentle sound of house construction, blurring any noise from the radio inside. As usual, I have chosen a resting place where large digging trucks hang out, making scraping noises as they eviscerate the ground, punctuated with large crashes that make me pause, waiting for the screams. It sounds too much as if people are dropping things inappropriately. Like an accident site waiting to happen.  Still, when Chutney and I went for a walk up around that way yesterday, everything looked safe and, alas, busy.  They are constructing at least four new houses up the hill from me, which means peace and tranquility are pretty well gone for the summer. With the rain, I’d been lulled into a false sense of silence as they waited for the mud to solidify enough to be dug.

When I was a kid, I’d often be asked to pick out a campsite for us to stop at.  I’d pore over the AAA guides and find a likely candidate, and we’d pull in in the darkness, only to wake the next morning to a freight train rushing by 30 feet away, or major construction (involving explosives) within sight. I got kind of a name for it. Now I bring the rain to camping.  Still I like camping. Must be madness. Or masochism.

Ach, never mind.  The sun is shining.  My sugar snap peas are curling up against the yarn I’ve tied out for them and are growing as I watch, my little lettuce garden is almost eating height. And the bangs and crashes seem to be keeping the crows away.  As they say, it’s an ill wind that blows NO good.

Chutney has calmed down, having found an appropriate spot to rest his head. He’s in the sun, with his chin perched on the lower rung of the balcony. A gentle growl of the lord in his manor is rumbling out of his throat.

And they’ve gotten the chains out up hill at the construction site.

And best of all, my neighbor’s glassy wind chime is rattling away in the breeze. I desperately want to bring her one of those woodland chime ones that play Gregorian chant tones, but I suspect she’d be insulted.

Ahh, the peace of suburbia.