rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Reset Thirty-Four, Day Eleven

I realized Saturday afternoon (when I woke up not long after two o'clock) that it's been quite some time since I've seen either my lizard or my yard rat. The dismal thought crossed my mind that they might have killed each other. The rat eats the lizard, and the lizard poisons the rat. And what ever became of my mockingbird? I haven't heard it all summer. Couple this with the fact that the people who owned the orange cat moved out, and no cats have come to fill the void, and the place seems quite bereft.

Except for the flies, of course. I've had loads of flies this year. Mostly they stay in the back yard, but now and then one gets indoors. For the last couple of days I've had one pestering me day in and day out. In fact it was the fly that woke me up Saturday afternoon. I would probably have slept until four again had the fly not kept buzzing around my head and crawling on my bare arm. I should probably thank the fly for that, but I don't feel like it. It left me short of sleep, and that makes me grumpy. Grumpier.

There is a bit of wind tonight, and I hope it won't stir up the fires. I like to think of there still being some leaves to blow about in this autumn's wind. Ashes blowing about just aren't the same.

Sunday Verse

People at Night

by Rainer Maria Rilke

The nights were not made for crowds, and they sever
You from your neighbour, and you shall never
Seek him, defiantly, at night.
But if you make your dark house light,
To look on strangers in your room,
You must reflect—on whom.

False lights that on men’s faces play
Distort them gruesomely.
You look upon a disarray,
A world that seems to reel and sway,
A waving, glittering sea.

On foreheads gleams a yellow shine,
Where thoughts are chased away,
Their glances flicker mad from wine,
And to the words they say
Strange heavy gestures make reply
That struggle in the buzzing room;
And they say always “I” and “I,”
And mean—they know not whom.

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