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Birds that sing for whatever reason they sing…

North Carolina mornings don’t get much better than this one.

My walkabout started at 6:15 (fortified by the omnipresent go-cup of strong French roast coffee). Really, there’s no doubt this is the best part of the week; quiet and calm, accompanied by birds that sing for whatever reason they sing. Not even the discarded yet unopened water bottle laying curbside less than 200 yards into my walk had me cursing (that would come later).

None of this, however, delays what becomes a busy morning filled with the odd assortment of debris. It never ceases to amaze me that this amount of clutter can accumulate all along the same route in the span of 24 hours – but it does and always without fail. I’m glad I don’t trod other paths; it would depress me to find even more thoroughfares lined with even more junk.

So onward I plod and can boast of new finds never before collected the past couple of days; a car aerial that now doubles as a walking stick and a fresh pack of baby wipes. I thought I’d seen it all.

This morning's sordid haul. The volume should be roughly the same tomorrow. And the day after that.

This morning’s sordid haul. The volume should be roughly the same tomorrow. And the day after that.

I plunked down the bag filled to the gills with litter on the driveway. Just out of sight behind a holly bush were 5 other over-stuffed bags I just hadn’t gotten to pouring out earlier in the week to photograph for trashy posterity. It took about 30 minutes to dump each bag out, arrange it tastefully for a damning photograph, then further sort it out by trash type for the recycle bin.

So it was a Sunday morning that wasn’t too different from others before it. The volume of junk is always roughly the same; it’s just what’s in each bag that differs.

Here are the prior days of debris. It’s sordid, too:

IMG_0288 IMG_0287 IMG_0286 IMG_0285

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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