rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

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


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.

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