| September'99 | . |
This Journal |
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Out the window from the dining room there's a skunk smoodging around in the grass, looking for bugs or something. What do skunks eat, anyway? I'm familiar with a literary skunk like the garbage can rouster in Lowell's poem. I'm familiar with Pepé le Peeuu (how the hell do you spell that? ) from Warner Brothers. But I have not much familiarity with the actual critter up close and personal. Now there it is in the big green grass, which has been sprayed today by the lawn chemists who posted little white warning signs that wiggle atop wires. We are warned to stay off the grass until the spray dries. When is that? And how will the skunk know? And why don't we care - as long as the grass is greener than green and weedless? This makes me wonder who, in fact, is more noxious. (Should I rush out to warn this beautiful beast with its feline demeanor?) And what about our gimpy rabbit? Dom and I noticed this rabbit on our walking to and from exercise. Its right rear leg is horribly broken (from an encounter with a dog or a human machine?) and twisted outwards, thoroughly healed in all the wrong directions. The sad creature rushed across my path tonight right into the sprayed yard. What toll does the gimp pay? That's all. |
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George Orwell |
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Chronic
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