The Waiting
By Jane Wong
I was waiting for something
to arrive. I didn’t know what.
Something buoyed, something
sun knocked. I placed my palms
up, little pads of butter, expecting.
All day, nothing. Longer than
that. My hair grew, fell out,
grew. Outside my window, I felt
the flick of a tail in September
wind. A bobcat sauntered across
the grass before me, the black tip
of its tail a pencil I’d like to sharpen.
I immediately hushed, crouched,
became a crumpled shock of
joy to see something this wild,
not myself. It turned to look
at me, its body muscular in
the turning. In its mouth was
the tail of a mouse drained of
blood, dangling diorama of death.
Sharp eyes looking at me and then,
not. Its lack of fear, its slow stroll
across the stream’s bridge, fur
lacquering its teeth. Sometimes
what comes to us, we never called
for. How long had I been crouched
like that? I stood up, blood rush
trumpeting. My arms wrapped
themselves around myself, lifted.
It was as if a bank vault had
opened and I was just standing
there, stealing nothing.
--------
On Thursday morning we could hear the phaser fire sound of cicadas in the trees! I realize I may not be so enthusiastic after a week of it blasting in my ears, but it's still exciting. I did nothing more exciting than chores otherwise until evening -- well, some walking after the heat broke in the afternoon.
Then we had dinner and I caught up on The Flash, which is so awful this season that I have no idea why I'm still watching. Both villains are mature women, one meta, one not, being vilified with increasingly exaggerated makeup for having strongly stated beliefs and sounding increasingly unhinged.
I chatted with my fannish friends for a little over an hour, researched new pans for older son whose non-stick frying pan is rusting, caught up with some email, and caught lots of dark-type Pokemon while half-watching baseball. Here are some more photos from Wootton's Mill Park last weekend:
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