Fall moved in today, gently packing summer's last wisps of warmth and waving goodbye.

Had I mentioned a poem about Lily? A friend wrote:

Autumn shows its grace

as golden leaves fall upon
Lily's pointed ears

A chilly morning with sunlight bright in the air.

Today random chance spits up triple cherries again and I find something that is hard for me to see. A baby chipmunk writhes in the leaves. I am ready to bring down heavy crushing stones on lawn mower blades, but I realize this animal's suffering is not from an injury on the outside.

Did he fall from a tree? Is his pebble of a mind bruised after slamming into his skull?

His fur is smooth and perfect. His eyes are wide black polished beads glistening, unblinking.

Fright? He does not seem to react to me, even as I brush his back and trace a stripe in his fur.

Blind? But how would he have lived long enough to be semi-grown?

He pushes his head against the ground as if rubbing his ear, then his shoulder side back follow and a quick ribbon of white belly flashes as he twists, then straightens.

Had he been stung or bitten by something? His motion was rhythmic and brief. A few turns and he would sit and do something familiar to him: with his front paws he swiped mini fingers down across a blank face and twitching nose. Blink. He shivered while motionless, then twisted again.

Running up the walk I grab a wire bird cage that I keep for the things my pets harm, and I save. Harm save harm save. Lousy cats.

With cupped and gloved hands I nudge his wriggling body into the little cell and try feeding him drops of water with a syringe -- not needle, just a way to get medicine down the cats' throats, and now to feed this reluctant thing.

I make a phone call and leave a message for Joe, my animal rehab contact.

Heading back outside I hear Jerry: Kendra? He stares at the cage.

I look. The chipmunk is spinning, twisting, stopping, shivering.

You have to let it go, Jerry said.

No!

Kendra, you have to.

I called the animal rescue for help, I said.

Let nature handle this. Something is wrong.

Yes…

It's neurological or something, Jerry guesses.

I told him: I know…no injuries, he is off…

Let him go, Jerry said.

I did. I tipped the cage and shook gently until he slipped into the brush, twisting.

Friday night into Saturday morning, and I am home from the bar and pour a glass of beautiful ruby red wine for myself. Finally. A book and a sip and I ponder the new means of self-adoration that has cast its spell. Digital and hand-held, we have left the mirrors behind for photos and internet postings and a generation of people sitting home in their bedrooms with arms extended as camera flashes bring bright highlights to their lives. Look at me! Look at me!

I gave it a shot.

With my cell phone turned on me, I propped an elbow on the bar and sighed. Got a nice shot of my worn out face and smudgy make-up after two nights in a row closing the bar. Must be about 4:30 a.m. in this photo.

Lily lifts her head to watch the weird thing I do.