Six in formation shrieked overhead as I stood in front of this building, having made my weekly visit to an almost 100-year-old former Garrett Parker who lives there.
I like to do occasional city walks: I get on the 8:13 MARC train (they rarely charge me anything for it; I think they only want to deal with regulars who flash cards at them, not people who pay cash) and in no time I’m at Union Station, where the government shutdown features a quiet city, the angles of its monumental buildings super-sharp in full sunlight.
I walked from one station (Union St.) to another (Judiciary Sq.), and then metro’ed to Friendship Heights, where, after the visit with my friend, I once again metro’ed home. Mr UD picked me up at our local stop.
I’m now tired and pleasantly chilled.
… you can’t argue with these containers.
On my morning walk through Garrett Park.
My “affluent suburb … [an] idyllic hamlet … used to the trappings of Washington’s elite,” looses its chihuahuas on the FBI as the feds search John Bolton‘s house.
But… “bucolic“?
… by early morning sunlight.
People like UD‘s gardens. UD likes UD‘s gardens. But it must be stated for the record that UD‘s zebra grass – eight feet tall and everywhere – is a mite more massive/spreading than she understood when she bought three plants from a little nursery near the Chesapeake Bay a few years ago.
Munro Leaf, author of Ferdinand, was the last owner of our house.
One of UD‘s neighbors is suddenly being visited by lots of friends in armored SUVs. Hm.
… that the very active paper wasp nest just outside the living room is now gone, after chemical warfare was initiated.
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UD‘s sister discovered the thing.