Yesterday morning I ate breakfast out on the porch because it feels, smells like fall and I could hear flute coming from the house down the street. The Count of Monte Cristo is the only book I can read right now; it keeps my mind off of things. My legs were sore from a thirty-mile bike ride and I ate bacon, eggs, and toast while I read about one man’s elaborate plan for the ultimate act of vengeance.
As I sat reading, crumbs of my scrambled eggs sat out in the sun and a yellow-jacket buzzed and hovered. He landed on a little chunk of egg, played with it, perhaps ate it (I don’t know what they are doing with all of those appendages), wrapped his legs around it and took off into the air. The weight rendered him less than graceful, but he ambled away to God only knows where. He came back, minute after minute, to break apart, envelope, and carry off pieces of egg, sometimes flying as far as a nearby leaf before setting off again.
I watched him do this for a long time with the intention of letting him fly away with every single piece, but I had to get up, go inside and worry about something else.
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