The Life of a Day

J had to work late so I spent the evening reading poetry and scribbling things in my little notebook. When he came home, he bent down to kiss me and his black tie draped over my book of poems in just such a way. "Wait," I said. "Do that again and let me photograph it." A nice little reminder of why I do this photo-a-day "project" (going on three years now):


The Life of A Day
by Tom Hennen

Like people or dogs, each day is uniqueand has
its own personality quirks which can easily be seen
if you look closely. But there are so few days as
compared to people, not to mention dogs, that it
would be surprising if a day wre not a hundred
times more interesting that most people. But
usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless
they are wildly nice, like autumn ones full of red
maple trees and hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly
awful ones in a winter blizzard that kills the lost
traveler and bunches of cattle. For some reason
we like to see days pass, even though most of us
claim we don't want to reach our last one for a
long time. We examine each day before us with
barely a glance and say, no, this isn't one I've been
looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for
the next, when, we are convinced, our lives will
start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by
perfectly well-adjusted, as some days are, with the
right amounts of sunlight and shade, and a light
breeze scented with a perfume made from the
mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak
leaves, and the faint odor of last night's
meandering skunk.