I had intended to file from the garden. I have, instead, filed from the rug. I shall explain. There is, I should say, nothing to explain.
14:10 — The window. The good one. The low one, with the view of the feeder and the fence and the section of sky that does the most work. I have observed it for years, from many positions. Today the best position was the rug, beside the chair. I am not entirely certain how this was determined. The light was there. So, as it happened, was I.
14:35 — A finch. Then a second finch. Then a pause in finches, which I logged, because the pauses are also the report. The Woman watched them too, from the chair, under the blanket. We watched the same finches at the same time. I did not point this out. One does not narrate a thing while it is in the middle of being good.
15:20 — A beetle crossed the floor with considerable purpose. I tracked it as far as the skirting board. It is, I should think, fine. I did not pursue. Pursuit is not, as longtime readers will know, my way; and besides, I did not wish to leave the rug. The rug had, without my having formally agreed to it, become the assignment.
16:05 — The light moved the way the light moves: slowly, and then all at once — gold across the floor and up the side of the chair. It reached her hand where it lay on the blanket and it settled there, which is, on reflection, precisely where I would have placed it, had the placing of it ever been left to me.
16:40 — Nothing further to report from the window. There was, however, a great deal to not-report from the rug, and I have not-reported it as thoroughly as I know how. I stayed where I was. There was nowhere better to be. I had, characteristically, checked.
Report concludes. The afternoon was warm. The finches will return tomorrow; so will I, to the same position, which I have now — quietly, and without putting it to a vote — made permanent. It was, by every measure I keep, a good one.