The Antsy-ness of Lazy

I notice the hot embers of the last log burning out in the fire pit. Like a reptile, its skin of cornered segments pulsates degrees of redness in between the cracks.

I took the day off from writing. My immediate deadlines were met. Why not celebrate with guilt-free laziness? I sat on the back porch, water fountain bubbling nearby, huge old maple tree shading my head. I alternated between reading a fantasy about shape shifters of the animal variety and staring through the weaving of branches and leaves above me. I’d finally Imagefinish this book in a few hours.

But I was antsy. I moved over to the sunnier porch. I watered flowers. Even tried a nap. Then back to the book until it was done.

Near dark the fire was fresh and full of blue yellow flames of burning sticks and tree trimmings. I roasted a few marshmallows and sat staring in the night, fireflies rising from the ground, muffled traffic sounds in the distance.

The last flicker of blue died. The lazy day was finally done.

I curl up in my easy chair in my writing room, reading a Writer’s Digest magazine and taking notes before I fall asleep.

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