rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Saturday somehow put me to sleep early, and I wrote no entry. I'm quite sure I missed something I'd intended to watch on television, too, but I can't remember what it was. It was worse for Portia, as she was outside when I fell asleep and I didn't let her back indoors until early this morning. It was a fairly mild night, though, so she took no harm from the experience. I think I actually slept better for not having a cat piled atop me.

Today brought its own gift of nearly empty streets and markets, thanks to a Big Game of some sort (OK, I know it was the Stuporbowl.) Despite the lack of chaos in the aisles, I still managed to buy two of the wrong products, and forget to buy something important. I'll have to do returns and fetch the missing item on Tuesday after my appointment with the chiropractor. At least this being a head-yanking week I won't have to make a special trip to correct my shopping errors.

It looks as though the comparatively balmy weather might be leaving us this week after all. There might even be rain again on Thursday. I hope there is, because drought is worse than damp cats. I feel bad for the frogs, though. They've been singing so nicely every night, and now they'll have to endure at least one or two freezing nights. In the long run the rain will be good for them, too, of course. Their pools might dry up by spring without it.

Sunday Verse

Black cat in a morning

by Norman MacCaig

Black cat, slink longer: flatten through the grass.
The chaffinch scolds you, pebbling you with chinks
Of quartzy sound, where the green lilac banks
White falls of stillness and green shades of peace.

A shape where topaz eyes may climb and find
The fluttering gone, the dust smelling of green,
The green a royal deshabille of the sun
Tossed on a tree and stitched with its own gold.

And chaffinch rattling from another bush
Shakes with his furious ounce a yard of leaves,
Strikes flints together in his soft throat and moves
In out, out in, two white stripes and a blush.

Black cat pours to the ground, is pool, is cat
That walks finicking away, twitching behind
A stretched foot: sits, is carved, upon the ground,
Drubbing soft tomtoms in his silky throat.

He changes all around him to his scale.
Suburban suns are jungle stripes of fire
And all the mornings that there ever were
Make this one mount and mount and overspill.

And in their drenching where time cannot be,
Amiably blinking in ancestral suns
He swallows chaffinches in stretching yawns
And holds the world down under one soft paw.


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