Time Flies

[rejectomorph]

This afternoon was like winter in Los Angeles, except for the leaves being off most of the trees and the streets being mostly empty of cars. I think most of the town was home watching a football game. It was nice to have parking spaces near the stores, and short lines for checkout. We should have more such football games. But I would not have spent this day in front of a television for anything. The bright sun and soft breezes were a delight, and I got through shopping so fast that I missed very little of them. There was still an hour of daylight when I got home, and I sat in the yard for a while watching the day fade. I closed my eyes and imagined palm trees in place of the mountain pines. It was like being home.

Today was probably the peak of the warm cycle, but there's no sign of full-on winter returning anytime soon. The feral cats' water bowls will not freeze overnight, and I won't have to pile any extra blankets on myself. At most, we'll get a gray day or two, and maybe a few rain sprinkles. I'd welcome more rain, though. I'm actually beginning to worry that the ground will dry out and the lawn will turn brown again. I expect brown lawns in summer, but I'd hate to see one in January.

Before shopping I had a few beastly encounters. Squirrels ran across my rooftop early this morning, making a startling racket. It's remarkable how noisy they can be for such small creatures. I also saw a feral cat who has been visiting my yard now and then for the last couple of months. One of his back legs has recently been injured, and he isn't getting around very well. I usually don't feed him because he harasses the other cats, but today I put some food out for him. That was probably a mistake, as it will encourage him to come around more frequently even after he heals, but he could starve without a handout right now. He didn't stick around long today, though, probably fearing to run into the other feral cats, and he was in no condition to deal with them.

Later, Portia went outside and stalked birds for a couple of hours. She didn't catch any, though they were plentiful. She's probably too fat to catch birds anymore. While she was out, I had to deal with a fly who had gotten into the house. A fly, in January! That's one of the disadvantages of having such mild weather this month, I guess. It was totally worth it, though. It was as nearly a perfect day as I expect to see this winter.




Sunday Verse

Chance Meetings

by Conrad Aiken


In the mazes of loitering people, the watchful and furtive,
The shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves,
In the drowse of the sunlight, among the low voices,
I suddenly face you,

Your dark eyes return for a space from her who is with you,
They shine into mine with a sunlit desire,
They say an 'I love you, what star do you live on?'
They smile and then darken,

And silent, I answer 'You too—I have known you,—I love you!—'
And the shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves
Interlace with low voices and footsteps and sunlight
To divide us forever.

Comments

[daisydumont.livejournal.com]

I'm glad you enjoyed the day! We've been having an odd inversion here, with some pollution and oddly trapped fog. But then today there was sunshine, and I enjoyed that.

The poem perplexed me -- I read each long line as if it were a song lyric, but then the fourth line of each stanza stopped dead. I don't know enough about Aiken, obviously.

[rejectomorph]

I'd like a nice fog.

I think the three truncated lines emphasize the story in the poem. The first conveys the stunned surprise of the unexpected; the second the muteness of secrecy; the third the emptiness of unfulfilled desire.

[daisydumont.livejournal.com]

Oh! Nicely done. (I set out to major in English at IU, but my Lit 102 prof savaged my attempts at analysis, so I switched to Italian. Ahem. Theodore Roethke was my downfall. *g*)

[rejectomorph]

Ah, one of those arrogant (or perhaps insecure) professors who denigrate their students. I've heard of them but never encountered one. I attended a community college, where the professors were so accustomed to despair that even a faint glimmer of insight from a student would elicit delight, and utter obtuseness would typically be met with no more than a look of sorrowful resignation.