When I went out on the screened porch this morning to enjoy my Sunday pancakes -- a pleasure that may fade with the season any week now -- I settled in and heard a quiet but insistent high-pitched buzzing sound out over the park. Drones. Drat.
For the most part people around here seem to have internalized the sensible proscription on mowing lawns or blowing leaves on Sunday morning. Even if people aren't churchgoers, the sabbath has some kind of residual status and people at some somatic level get that Sunday morning is special. Drones aren't that loud but if they're nearby they still make an annoying sound.
Finally they stopped, and my attention was diverted to an older -- certainly septua if not octa-genarian -- guy who slowly and deliberately walked lap after lap of the park circut. I must credit that this is actually a pretty brilliant strategy to maximize hill workout, water views and, due to others circumnavigating the lake and passing through the parking lot up top -- random social possibilities. I may have to try this some evening, perhaps mixed with juggling a soccer ball. It would appear to beat jogging.
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