New Year, to be Year of the Rooster

Yesterday's forecast sun came near noon today, unexpectedly; Mr Lee and I took to the path to the swimming hole eager to see how the river had worked the beach. More sand has been deposited over the slippery clay, a gift. But I grew sad watching Mr Lee on the beach and no Mojo. Home now, with the sky rippling up in preparation of rain (through Monday), I am hanging with melancholy. Though grateful for the good walk setting my pace for the rest of the year. The year I was born was also a Rooster year. I am preparing to stir my bones for dinner in Blacksburg, traditional black-eyed peas and greens; I failed to make it out for last night's celebration. Sinusitis lingers and I am no great fan of New Year's Eve parties. Watched the movie 33, about the Chilean gold miners who were trapped underground for 69 days. 
Here I am in the silence of the hollow. I imagine the squirrel is dangling upside down raiding the sunflower seeds in the bird feeder while I am on this sofa upstairs. The chickens scratch in the larger yard as they were when I last looked out the north facing window in the bathroom, I suspect. I am weighing being late for dinner tonight, so that I can secure their coop before I go, rather than waiting until 8 PM or so. I don't know. 
2017. 50 years since I graduated from Sarah Lawrence! I never imagined this.