June 7, 1999: The neighbors are cutting down trees
When I look out my window, I expect to see the beauty of life—not in a sickly “I am perfect” form, not in a “nature freak” style. I see trees that hold hollow dreams filled with birds, squirrels and moles and although I’ve never seen them, snakes, frogs and turtles. Life in different forms—not the stuff poets love to write about, not the sort of life that brings solitude to a day. Life—that was here before me.