Tired. My hands and wrists are sore and covered with peck holes from cleaning 11 western grebes covered in oil from our neighboring refinery.

Our bathroom has three tubs of still oily grebes, wrapped in torn t-shirts to try to keep them from preening themselves.

The house reeks of oil. But at least the grebes are quiet.

To bed, to sleep. Tomorrow morning begins with grouse leks, and then I will have to decide the fate of any surviving grebes.

Crap.