10 December 2007. Gleaming winter sky, low angle sun. Black Toyota work truck in 7-eleven lot, side panels like Greek fire, wirey lumber rack on top, styrofoam coffee cup balanced precariously near the edge. Last night: I reach to pick up Natasha, but in her desperate feral state one long nail hooks my wrist and forearm: long narrow line of red, then more...
Passions and fears. Line of trees in winter mist, somewhere in the eastern part of the valley. Stearns Road, running north to the Stanislaus. Grays and dull gray-greens, empty branches to the water's edge, summer splendor turns winter's ruin. Residents and guests: wood duck in the shadows, golden-crowned sparrows... Lapping of the river, quiet damp air. Marshlands and melancholy...
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