Tiger is sleeping as he rests up for the vet at 5:00. He eats from my hand.
I am catching up with all my piles, sorting, unifying, eliminating.
This morning, in the early light, I saw numerous spider webs, orbs, segmented like records of the past.
They glistened as I moistened them with the hose.
I come across this poem, and offer the final words from the poem "Birches" by Robert Frost.
Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
- Robert Frost