I am left with the feeling that something is very wrong about the way people here live. After I've scolded myself for being arrogant, after I've extended the benefit of the doubt fully, seen, begun to understand and forgiven, I am continually disappointed. But the creative responsibility is ours, is mine, and it has been my fault always, dwelling, chewing over the same general malaise that's been swimming in my gut since I forgot I am a child.

I conclude that we are all equally responsible for the souldeath that cripples the human animal (and when has it been different?) if we allow it to set up camp in our own heads.

I can't do it anymore, ruminating always, scowly, whiny bullshit.

I've been watching birds lately, learning more about the world in the past two weeks than I have at any time I can remember. There IS beauty here.

Today I found a tiny hatchling, about two inches long, on the ground, struggling and panting. The nurturing instinct returns, a driving urge to protect vulnerable life. It is powerful. In a rush to identify its parents, I found that Orange-crowned Warblers build their nests on the ground. I watched one of the parents feed spiders and grubs to the infant. I would later discover a second hatchling. The cat stays inside.

There is a cycle, unyielding, a vaguely knowing consciousness in the inquisitive quickness of a bird's eyes. There is a web, and I am part of it. I put out seed and the birds come and more birds come to eat what falls from the feeder and their scratching feet plant the seeds and rabbits come to eat the sprouts. Mourning Doves, pensive and cantankerous, fight with one another. The crows, indifferent, watch.

There are no guns here, no politicians and politician language and politician thinking. There is no feeling awkward, mistrusted or unwanted. There is no dull, thudding heartbeat of a culture forgotten what happiness is. There is only the cycle, the buzz of cicadas, the shuffling of wings.

I think I'll miss it here.