Flying Cats

I am barefoot on the dew fresh lawn, always barefoot these days in spite of the times a piece of wood or small edge pokes my foot.  The morning air is cool at last, even though the air feels like a wet-shower filled bathroom.  I am closing in with my little hand-held camera on some butterflies that are landing on glistening flower heads in search of the earliest nectar.  Last night's two inches of rain has kept everyone still until the mid-morning sun finally peaks through gray clouds and surprises with very warm rays on the shoulders and arms.

Just behind my head I hear the purr of a cat or perhaps it is a small kitten in the throes of some extreme pleasure.  But since I do not own any cats and since I know that cats do not fly, I turn ever so slowly in the direction in question.  At an odd angle with my head, I capture this hummer as he looks for the zinnias that now have wreathes of those yellow star blossoms that convey the sugar.  This pink zinnia will provide no reward.

I am a tree.  I do not move except to push the camera which makes a tiny click.  She suspects something, but is not sure why the tree is so strangely shaped.  She lingers every so briefly, before flying to the bee balm in the bed by the sugar maple.

Since she filled my heart I feel creative and  go back inside and add some magic (photoshop) to a photo of an old beaver pond I took last spring.