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August

8 p.m. Such a wide, blue sky. No sign of rain, that elixir that quenches our parched souls. I filled the hummingbird and oriole feeders on the west porch, and voila! They appeared, the hummers in their dive-bomb fashion, the oriole in his golden shimmer. On my daily feeding rounds of the nocturnals [raccoons and opossums] this evening, I saw my lame baby dead opossum being eaten by the other babies. As I tried to grab him, the horde of 13 pulled him into their lair. Protein. I knew that opossums can eat their own, but I never thought that I would witness such nature. Survival of the fittest. Nature in all its reality. The little lame one I was going to keep for educational purposes, knowing that he would be instant prey upon release. Yesterday at feeding time, he was fine. Today, gone. Such is the cycle of life. Sunrise, sunset, and around again. 
The little fox squirrel has opened both eyes now, sucking with such vigor 10 cc of formula every four hours.