I’m surprised when nothing surprising happens.

From Alfred’s journal

Gray all day, no wind, the feeder untouched since morning. I sat on the gutter from noon until the light went orange and nothing happened at all: no hawk, no cat, not even the mail truck, and Switch stayed wherever Switch goes on days like that. For years I kept the journal as a net for the odd thing, the once-only thing, as though a day with no event in it were a day that had failed to show up. But around four I caught myself craning at an empty yard and thinking, well, this is strange. I'm surprised when nothing surprising happens. A whole afternoon arranged itself to be unremarkable, which takes more agreement among more parties than I had ever considered.