rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


A somewhat eventful night included yet another accidental frightening of the deer. Because the air was quite still, sounds were very loud, and I suppose the noise of my door opening sent them into a panic. Their hoof-beats were very loud, too. They ran about a hundred feet before slowing. It sounded as though there were at least four of them. As I didn't do anything to further alarm them, they then strolled slowly to the end of the block. I could still hear them as they jumped the low fence of the orchard.

After the deer were gone, I listened to the night for a while. I could hear each leaf that fell from the oaks, glancing off of other leaves on its way to the ground. I could hear the barking of dogs very faintly, as from a great distance. I could hear my own footsteps, terribly loud, the way they are in a bad dream when you feel you must be silent to avoid attracting the attention of some threatening presence, but must move to escape the danger they present. I was glad I wasn't asleep.

For a while, Orion wore a filmy cape of moonlit cloud, which slowly enveloped him, and even the moon vanished among vapors for a dark hour. I thought there might be more unexpected rain, but the sky has since cleared, and only the seasonal, ground-hugging haze remains. Everything smells damp.

Last time I went out, a pine tree flung one of its cones at me, barely missing. I didn't go near the oaks. Acorns are small, but they can hurt if they smack your head.

  • Reset Seventeen, Day Sixteen

    No nap Wednesday evening, because I slept the middle of the day away and got up at half past two. I might actually get to sleep before five o'clock…

  • Reset Seventeen, Day Fifteen

    Once again I've forgotten when I went to sleep, but I woke up around two o'clock in the morning. Tuesday was quite warm, and I kept the windows open…

  • Reset Seventeen, Day Fourteen

    I don't recall the exact hour, but it was well before midnight Monday, when I felt the sudden need for a nap. I expected it to last until perhaps two…

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.