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Sunday morning deserves a strong cup of joe and a homemade waffle harboring gooey maple syrup in its recesses.

Even the bottle of dish detergent needs whimsy now and again [3605]

For those who are not yet fans of the skink, be forewarned.

Ahh, the skink! What a tranquil fellow.

When anything of potential interest passes through his domain, he releases a flick of tongue: never three, never two, just one. Frequently that flicker is the only sign that he's not in a deep meditative trance.

And he IS a blue-tongued skink, after all.

I never did figure out why this fellow flapped his wings so.

Wings flapped and blurred

One serene fall morning, he landed two feet from the open front door: oblivious to the humans within. With a complex choreography of hopping and flapping, he became a blur from my camera's viewfinder. He departed shortly thereafter, leaving me to sip coffee and grasp at the tendrils of a plan for the day.