8/18/97
When I came home from work the other day, I saw a baby bird
on the ground a few feet from the porch. It had tufts of fuzzy
feathers sticking out of flattned gray feathers and a pale beak.
It stared up at me, noiseless. I looked for the nest, but didn't
see it. I knew I couldn't bring it inside since I have two cats.
So I didn't do anything, and when I was laying in bed at night I felt
bad about it. The next morning it was gone, and I wondered what
happened to it. Even solving small problems can sometimes be
daunting and make you feel helpless.
8/18/97
The light is seeping away as darkness crawls in to take
its place. I've looked up a few times to watch the light's
gradual retreat.
The quality of light around the six o'clock hour is sometimes
a bittersweet feeling. When my dad worked out of town
and I'd wait for him to get home, the six o'clock hour seemed
oppressive, the light on its last legs, the day coming to an end.
Now and then, the quality of light brings back that feeling now,
like I am once again the little girl playing in the yard, looking
to the main road each time a car goes by, watching and waiting for
my dad. The wait always seemed so long, as if he'd never arrive.
8/19/97
Sunday was filled with rain, wind, and thunder. Rain smacked
down on the ground, the streets, and the cars that blurred by.
The wind broke small branches from the trees and plucked leaves,
throwing them to the ground.
I didn't set foot outside my apartment the whole day. I had
stayed up too late on Saturday night and woke up early (the latter
not of my choosing). I laid around for most of the day, stretched
out on the futon, reading or watching TV even though my eyes hurt
from being so tired. I hadn't been that lazy for a while, and
I wish I hadn't been so tired so I could've enjoyed it even more.
Today it's still rainy, but just drizzly. When I came home from work,
I walked through the wet grass in my sandals, and it felt tickly cool
and refreshing--definately nice after being cooped up in a windowless
space all day.
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