Late

The shrinking moon reaches the zenith late. I stand in the shadow of the eaves and watch the dim figure of the cat playing on the lawn, softly frosted with pale light. A single window in one house glows for an early-rising neighbor. I don't like to see the evidence of waking. They are all better off asleep. It would be good to be able to cast an enchantment on the town, so that it always slept, and only I would be awake, and the deer and raccoons and birds. The only time I like the place now is when the animals and I alone are stirring. I'm glad that I myself sleep through a large part of the town's waking life. It's good to be out of sync with this place. I hope I can keep it that way.

Look!

The most hated man in Chicago.

I don't really follow baseball -- the only time I've seen much of a World Series was when I was in 8th grade, and my english teacher, Mrs. Butcher, brought a T.V. into the classroom so she could watch it. Watching baseball is all we did for several days.

But I do know about the misfortunes of both the Cubs and the Red Sox, and it seems to me better that only one of those teams should be in the series, anyway. If they played each other, it would just be too sad that one of them had to lose. Better if the Red Sox kick Florida's ass this year, and the Cubs get to slaughter the Yankees next year. That would make a much better story.

I probably still won't watch, of course, but eventually I'll see a silly, sentimental P.B.S. documentary about it, I'm sure.