rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Out of Season

It's nice to have a warm day in winter, but when the first day of the year is almost balmy I worry that it might be an omen. The last couple of winters have been cold, and the last couple of summers have been fairly mild. If we get a mild winter we might get a hot summer, and I wouldn't like that— not to mention the dessication that would follow should the mild winter be dry, which is usually the case.

The only advantage to a mild winter is the lower utility bills, and a hot summer would wipe out any savings. As much as I dislike the cold, I'd be pleased to have a nice storm come through right now, even if it brought snow, but it looks like it's going to be nearly balmy all week. I hope the fruit and nut trees don't start blooming too soon.

The feral cats now have two new friends; the small black cat who appeared about the time the large black cat vanished, and a gray and white cat who is probably a half-sibling on their father's side. Both appear to be intact toms. Both have been eating here. The feral cats welcome both of them, but a couple of nights ago I heard a fight in the neighboring yard, and it was probably the two toms fighting. It wouldn't surprise me if more turned up. My yard has become a cat resort.

So this being Sunday, tomorrow is the official New Year's Day holiday. I resolve not to celebrate it. I'll celebrate Tuesday as head-yanking day, though. My first chiropractic adjustment of the year, and not a day too soon. My neck feels as though I'd been carrying a heavy bundle around on my head. Or furniture. Happy New Year.




Sunday Verse


Stone


by Charles Simic


Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger's tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river;
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed,
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star-charts
On the inner walls.
Subscribe

  • Reset Twenty, Day Forty-One

    The longest day of the year is over, and tonight the low will be below seventy for the first time in a week. Today will be hot, but not as hot as…

  • Reset Twenty, Day Forty

    Saturday has been survived! The fire in Bidwell Park was contained after consuming 402 acres, and nothing else nearby has burst into flames despite…

  • Reset Twenty, Day Thirty-Nine

    Friday came and went and I survived again! Chico survived, too. The fire that got started in the park Thursday evening has so far remained mostly in…

  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 0 comments