Okay, I wanted to node this day when it happened, but I've been busy.
I got up in the morning, 6:30 and threw on my
work clothes and a hat. Grabbed some breakfast. Mom asked me to go out and check the filter in the pool. I did, the dog running around like a
madman, thinking I've come to
play with him. Nearly knocked me in the pool.
Stupid dog. When I check the filter basket, I find that it has been clogged with leaves, and no water is flowing. The suction is too
powerful for me to pull it out, so I reach down in and scrape the
rotting leaves away from the sides of the basket. It takes a minute, but finally I can get the basket out, and I dump it over the fence into the yard. As I put it back, I notice the dog is
going nuts over something in the pool. I look closer.
It's a
baby bird that has fallen into the pool. The poor thing is floating, but has no
control over anything. It's mouth opens and closes, but
no sound comes out. I find the net for scooping out leaves, and
gently scoop the bird out. He continues to silently open and close his mouth. It is such a regular action, I think one could keep
time by it, those silent cries ticking off the minutes until
doomsday. Really there is nothing I can do for this bird. I don't know how to take care of it, nor am I equipped to do so. I set it down gently over the fence where the dog can't get to it at least. I hope that maybe it will dry out and be able to cry for its
parents. It's beak still moves as it lies there, flapping one wing. Open, close, open, close. I wish there was something I could do.
Work is the same as always. A long, hot day of
manual labor. It feels good though. Moving my body, the
sun against my arms,
sweat rolling across them. I think about the bird, and wish I had put it in a shadier place. We finish early today, around one. I get home and there is an email from
her. She's been at the beach for a week, with her boyfriend and his family. I'm glad she is back. I call and ask if she wants to do something tonight. We decide to see
X-men. I try to maintain a handle on my
joy.
A little while later, I remember about the bird. I walk out into the yard to see if it is still there. It is, but it's mouth is
still now. It has
died. Time has stopped moving, doomsday is here. Ants and other insects crawl through the
filaments of its feathers.
This is how life moves: tumbling along from one thing to the next.
Mom comes home, we eat, and she goes to the barn to take care of her horse. While she is gone, my
grandparents arrive from Pennslyvania. They are staying for the weekend. I talk with them a while, until it is time to leave for the movie.
I stop at her house to pick her up. We take my car to the movie, because she likes it. She tells me a funny story about a popsicle that she ate, which is having some wierd effect on her lips.
Her beautiful lips.
The movie is good. Afterwards, we drive to the
waffle house. A dangerous place, but fun. While we are there, one of the waitresses nearly starts a
fight in the parking lot. She is
screaming at a man and a woman. Probably her ex and his new girl. She looks like she is ready to kill them both. The other waitress prepares to call the
cops, but things end in a semi-peaceful manner, thanks to an intervetion by the cook.
This is how life moves.
After waffle house, we sit on her porch and talk. We sit until
four in the morning. I have to go to work at seven, but
I don't care. She is
beautiful under the dark
summer sky, and I am continually amazed by how wonderful each new thing I learn about her is. She smokes cigarettes, and I nag her about it a little. I let her play with my
pocket watch. Eventually I have to leave.
At home
sleep comes quickly.