But as Porky had already eaten, I didn't worry about Portia getting into very much trouble once he had gone next door. An hour later I went out and found her waiting on the porch with a bird carcass in her mouth. She tried to barge back into the house with it, but I was able to block her, and she ended up devouring her prey outside, but for some feathers which she generously left on the doormat for me. Cats.
And while on the subject of felines, there is an old gray tabby who is not part of my colony but has been hanging around the yard for several months now. Shorty doesn't like him, but as Shorty is not very aggressive they don't fight unless the tabby is in a bad mood. He has been a few times in the past, but since going after Shorty when I'm there has gotten tabby chased from the yard by me, I think he has learned not to do that. But I didn't see the tabby today, and haven't seen him since before the rainstorm. Although he's been a bit of a problem now and then, I still hope nothing has happened to him. If he is gone then it's likely some other feral tom will claim his territory, and he might be even worse. Tabby at least has an understanding with Portia. They simply avoid each other.
Since I went shopping yesterday, the feline antics were about the only things of note that happened today. Portia got to stay out all afternoon, since eating wild food sometimes makes her vomit, and even if that doesn't happen her wild food poo tends to reek more than her commercial food poo. She's back in now, I hope she did whatever she was going to do while she was still outside. The day, as far as I'm concerned, has already been interesting enough.
Double dose this week, since I missed last week altogether. I should note that James (1927-1980) and Franz Wright (1953-2015) are the only parent/child pair to have won the Pulitzer Prize in the same category.
Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio
by James Wright
In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.
All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.
by Franz Wright
That glass was it filled with alcohol, water, or light
I turned you into a religion
four-foot priest of you, I kept
the little manger candle
kept your black half-inch of
in the hiding place
Destroyer of the world
In which city was it, in fourth or fifth grade, Mother
read in the newspaper you'd be appearing
and dressed me up in suit
and little tie
and took me
I wanted to run to you -- who were all these people? --
I sat alone beaming
at you who could not meet my eyes, and after
you shyly approached
and shook my hand
If I'm walking the streets of a city
covering every square inch of the continent
all its lights out
and empty of people,
you are there
If I'm walking the streets
overwhelmed with this love for the living
I will still be a blizzard at sea
Since you left me at eight I have always been lonely
star-far from the person right next to me, but
closer to me than my bones you
you are there
It's 1963 again, the old Minneapolis airport so vast
to me, and I am running
after the long flight alone I am running
into your huge arms —
I am forty-five now and I am dreaming
we are together again we are both forty-five
and I have you all to myself this time, and we are walking
together we're walking down a glowing-blue tunnel
we're on time for our flight, I can hardly believe it
we are traveling somewhere together alone
God knows where we are going, and who cares
we're together, walking
and happily talking
and laughing, and breathing.