This is an active time of year for squirrels. I forget, every time I take Regrette and Warden to the park. We get there, we see lots of squirrels, the dogs get excited and become unruly, and we immediately have to leave. It's such a futile exercise. I wonder if they could ever catch a squirrel if they were free to chase them. Maybe a drunk one, or an injured one. Heck, maybe Regrette is a tree climber. Who would know?
September. It was both the month I was locked up, and the month I was set free. September is freedom, and the end of it. I imagine I'll die in September. September is heavy.
Here is what I feel like: Like a fly fisherman, eternally casting his reel, but never catching anything.
Yes, like that.
No comments:
Post a Comment