Archive for September 24th, 2004


Morning light sifts through the window later, and more tentatively, now–taking more time to pool into the hot buttery squares on the floor that the cats love to dip and roll themselves in, as if they were succulent pieces of lobster. Night comes shuttering down more quickly. The band of light that wraps around each day like a wide bright ribbon seems to be shrinking–like a favorite shirt that shrinks in the dryer, leaving the day’s wrists and hips uncovered.

There’s a red-headed woodpecker running up and down one of the wooden columns on my front porch. It stops to periodically tap on the column–bright head a thrumming blur, like the bobbin on a sewing machine. The cats come to the windows, nudge the curtains aside with their heads, and stare.

At night, lacy insects with bodies the color of green apples quiver around the windows–a shiver of filigree, drawn to the light inside.

Things quicken. The geraniums and dahlias burn their colors into the air more brightly, birds hurry in harried, twittering conferences, and I think reckless thoughts. Things quicken.

Why is it that I love the light the most only as it’s leaving?

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