||[Apr. 1st, 2018|10:24 pm]
Money spent and food acquired, I can settle in for the chilly week upcoming. Today was probably the last day I'll be able to have open windows for a while. Tomorrow will be considerably cooler than today, and on Thursday the next rainstorm is to arrive. If its promise is fulfilled we could get upwards of two inches of rain over three days, which will be very good for the plants. They are starting to look a bit dry already, and I'll probably have to water the yard at least once before the storm gets here. |
At dusk I thought I heard a cricket chirping nearby, but as the chirps fell silent when the night deepened I guess it was just a very small bird. A cricket bird. Nature playing an April Fool prank on me. But the frog chorus is croaking away tonight, so I had something to listen to in the darkness before moonrise. It isn't too cold out yet— just chilly enough to demand a hoodie— so I was able to spend quite a while outside enjoying the concert. It's likely to be at least ten days before we get another evening as mild, and I wanted to soak it up.
There are still some waterfowl flying north. I heard a couple of flocks of geese not long after nightfall, and more recently some birds whose calls I can't identify over toward the river. So far I haven't heard any trumpeter swans, my favorite waterfowl to listen too. I never get to listen for long, of course, as they are swift fliers eager to get where they are going. I can barely remember what that was like anymore.
by Sarah Manguso
If people were sent to live on the moon, they would yell with
grief for their wet little planet. But silently -- no noise allowed
on the moon.
What happens on Earth? Confusion of all sorts. A big party in
Piedmont where people fall into the canals with their dogs.
Somehow they get from the canals to the libraries,
where the books are full of our history. The cheerleaders' teeth
are shiny. They live in a town, and it is a decent town. You
The people in the book are from another time. But their time,
their planet, did not, in time, become yours.
Since your own story does not warrant nostalgia, you are in
mourning for theirs.