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rejectomorph

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Wet [Apr. 11th, 2010|07:38 pm]
rejectomorph
Birds are odd little creatures. Today has been rainy and windy, but a few birds visited the back porch to snag snacks from the two bowls of dry cat food I leave out for the feral cats. A few minutes ago I looked out and saw one small bird sitting in one of the bowls. If Alger sees that bird in the bowl maybe he'll think I put it there for him to eat.

The rains of April are sometimes warm, but today's has been cold. There could be snow falling higher in the mountains, but here there are beads of water clinging to the new buds on the mulberry tree, glistening with the gray light of an overcast spring evening. Now and then a gust of wind will send a few of the drops flying, but more soon form. The sun must have set by now, so the beads will soon be swallowed by night. But there will be rain again tomorrow.

Maybe it was the overcast, but I didn't wake up until almost eleven o'clock this morning. Portia was helping to keep my feet warm, and was displeased when I shifted her, but was soon reconciled and found her way to the windowsill where she watched the rain. Kitties are easily entertained.

Dinner at eight. That's what happens when I don't eat lunch until three.




Sunday Verse


(Begin)


by Brendan Kennelly


Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of light at the window,
begin to the roar of morning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.
Every beginning is a promise
born in light and dying in dark
determination and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and future
old friends passing though with us still.
Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.
Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.

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Comments:
[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2010-04-12 12:22 pm (UTC)
how considerate of you to put a bird into alger's bowl. *g*

i like the poem very much!

how's portia's paw? if you've reported and i missed it, my apologies.
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[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2010-04-12 06:37 pm (UTC)
Portia's paw is doing better. In fact she's sticking her claws into my leg again every time she sits on my lap. She wasn't doing that for a few days. She probably had a sprain.

Alger probably would have preferred a piece of chicken in his bowl. That wouldn't fly away.
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